Elena L
by J.L.Niemann
Summary: Since the Grey's New Year's Eve party, ringing in 1999, Elena Lincoln has been preoccupied with Christian, her friend Grace Trevelyn-Grey's brooding and beautiful teenage son. Elena offers the boy a job at her upscale salvage business where her current submissive is also employed... and enjoyed. Elena and Christian discover a bond of empathy, trust, and undeniable attraction.
1. Chapter 1

Elena L.

April 1999

I'm in my favorite downtown Seattle coffee and sandwich shop, Sufficient Grounds, settled into a secluded rear cove, stirring a steaming mug of Darjeeling tea and wondering what Dr. Grace and I will chat about today.

It's a springtime Friday, late afternoon.

Dr. Grace Trevelyan-Grey must be off duty tonight, free of on-call responsibilities. When I phoned her yesterday with a "hey, let's get together and catch up" my friend readily replied with a relieved "yes please, Elena, let's."

She was uncharacteristically flustered and sullen. Or maybe I caught her during office hours; never a good time to sideline my pediatrician friend.

Grace and I have been close for about five years, ever since she walked into my upscale home-decor warehouse entitled Chic Salvage, located in the trendy warehouse district some two blocks east of from where I now sit. The business was a gift from my husband, Carter Lincoln of the prominent Lincoln Timber, commemorating our 10th wedding anniversary.

More accurately it was a means of boosting our net worth while simultaneously getting me out of the house every weekday. As always, his romanticism underwhelmed me.

Linc proferred his anniversary gift as he leaned in to plant a peck on my cheek.

"A bored housewife is a mans' greatest financial liability," he informed me, a shade condescendingly.

"Ah thank you, my darling," I cooed warmly accepting his nothing embrace, adding, "go fuck yourself" underneath my breath.

Grace came into the shop that day looking for an antique crystal chandelier and matching sconces to outfit her dining room remodel, all part of the brick colonial mansion refurbishment she and her lawyer husband, Carrick, had undertaken. I led her through my 15,000 square foot warehouse, chock full of reclaimed antique doors, windows, fireplace surrounds, stained glass, clawfoot bathtubs, collumns, corbels, hardware and the like. We settled on just the thing to illuminate the family table, and the resulting effect in the Grey dining room, I must say, is stunning.

I admire Grace tremendously for taking on the project to sensitively refurbish the stately 1920's mansion; a full-time working mother of three adopted children, a wife, physician, and all-around angel, with endless style to-boot. She is what I always wished to be; optimally educated, happily married to an adoring and good-looking husband, a mother, and woman both calmly and immaculately put together at all times.

Except today apparently.

Today is an aberration of Grace's character with her breathless plea for us to sit down for some R and R over coffee. I'm happy to oblige, eager to hear what event has the unflappable Grace Trevelyan-Grey in a tizzy.

The shop's counter is doing a brisk business with suited clientelle bustling in and then, to-go cup in grip, quickly bustling out. A few students have comandeered tables with their books and study materials, the laptop era not yet on the cusp. A nearby table is occupied by a young couple smilingly talking in hushed tones, toying with one another's fingers; coffee clearly not the main attraction of their rendezvous.

I shift in my seat and wait, appraising the updated late 90's decor and smoothing my blonde hair in the mirror across the aisle.

Grace is never late. Something has waylaid her.

No trouble. My university-student assistant, Anthony Sharpe, the Welsh-born _muscle_ of Chic Salvage, is holding the fort. My new-to-market Nokia 9000i cell phone sits beside me. Tony would call if I were needed for consultation or to appear for a significant sale or acquisition.

The gadget's SMS text tone startles me. I look down at the screen.

Anthony: _E, what_ _'_ _s keeping you?_

I reply slowly, new to this text messaging thing: _Tony, keep your shirt on. My friend hasn_ _'_ _t arrived yet._

Seconds later, a response pops up: _I_ _'_ _d rather take my shirt off. And yours. Does Madam wanna fuck?_

I gasp, my jaw having dropped, looking around nervously. What Anthony lacks in subtlety, he more than makes up for in power and endurance, both on the warehouse floor and in the loft office/bedroom above it. Bless him. His accent stirs me just thinking about it. I wonder if his bouncy California bimbo girlfriend is similarly affected.

I carefully type my reply: _I am ready when you are. In the loft. Closing time._

He responds: _Yes ma_ _'_ _am._

I look up to see a suited patron exit the coffee shop and my expected companion enter. Grace Trevelyn-Grey sees me down the length of the shop's shotgun layout, waves and smiles, holds up a finger in a "just a minute" gesture, and orders at the counter.

I squirm in my seat, my easily distracted mind having veered sharply to the hardbody awaiting me on my office Murphy bed. He knows better than to disappoint me, and never does.

I want to move this coffee-talk along.

"Grace, my dear," I purr, standing and taking my friend's outstretched hand as she arrives to my secluded table.

She smiles genuinely and squeezes my hand, "Elena. Always looking so beautiful."

"As are you, my darling. How are you? On the phone you sounded so…. strained. How is the family?"

"Oh, fine I suppose," she sighs and sits down, her smooth brow furrowing. "All in good health, thank heavens. I needed to get away. I'm off this weekend, but Elena, I don't want to go home."

I'm taken aback. "Good heavens. Why?"

Dismay is written all over Grace's lovely face. "Christian." She heaves a deep sigh and shakes her head. "He's driving his father and I mad."

I stare at my friend. "Oh no, not again."

"Yes. I'm at a loss."

"Don't tell me he was fighting at school again."  
Grace looks like she might cry.

"He was expelled from Overlake Academy today. Carrick had to pick him up. He's bruised a bit but it's no worse, thank God. His opponents take a real beating though."

"Oh Grace," I disheartedly smirk. "Why this time? Christian has such a short fuse."

"I don't know what to do for him, Elena. We have him seeing a therapist once a week. And we thought by putting him in kickboxing that he would have a release for this…. this aggression of his. I just find myself thankful that he comes away from these fights with his teeth and his nose intact, and without a permanent police record."

From what I've seen of Christian lately, yes, all are miraculous. And being that he is always labeled the instigator, I fear his parents will face a lawsuit eventually. It helps if your dad is a lawyer I suppose.

I ask, "Does he tell you what leads up to these fights? What triggers him?'

Grace gives a sardonic laugh. "That kid is a myriad of secrets. He should work the CIA when he grows up. There's no getting anything out of him."

I nod, thinking of myself at that age. The anger that I carried, at the mean girls, and my parents who couldn't be bothered with my problems. And the teachers who looked the other way.

High school. Domestic terrorism at its best.

We ponder silently for a few minutes, sipping our respective hot drinks.

I think of Christian. He must be fifteen, or soon to be in another few months. The last time I saw him, at the Grey's New Year's Eve party, he was my height, 5 foot 9. Lanky, square shouldered, auburn hair too long over his forehead as if he was trying to hide from the world. His sweet face marred by a bloom of acne. Gray eyes intense and observant, as always.

Christian's demeanor is in sharp contrast to Elliott, the Grey's bubbly class-clown eldest. And to Princess Mia, the effusive, not-a-whit-of-self-doubt little sister holding court daily over her adoring subjects.

Christian has always fascinated me. He's a kid with the weight of the world on his young, spindly shoulders, and at the same time he wears an air of 'mature and capable.' He's one given to rare smiles, even though his braces are now gone, but his smiles light up a room when his humor is caught unawares. Chistian is a boy who can sit down at the piano and play like I've dreamed my entire life I could play. He's a young person who will shake hands firmly like an adult man of the business world, and he's not first to release the hand clasp.

But don't dare try to hug him. And don't touch him.

Christian flinches with even the warmest, most genial touch. It is enough to make the entire room turn and stare. His reaction to any attempted embrace or touch, I've observed, is immediate. And pronounced.

I wonder if this is where his peer difficulties lie. I also wonder what happened in his young life to elicit this reaction.

Christian's mysteries fascinate me. He is no ordinary teenage boy, and I fear for him. There are demons at work behind those gray eyes. Demons gaining strength and size and fury. It will not end well for him I'm afraid. Real intervention is necessary. And soon.

But what kind of intervention? And how? And when?

I tap my red painted fingernails on the bistro table, thinking.

What can I do for this kid? For this family?

Why do I care?

 _You know why you care, Elena._ Because you're bored. You're a rich old man's trophy wife. Childless, useless, not content with sport-fucking a hot young Welshman and exerting the power over him that his stupidly oblivious girlfriend doesn't know he needs. You weren't content with any of the others before him either.

You love that, Elena, don't you? The control. Tying them up, using and abusing, wringing them out, making them beg. Making them worship you.

 _Yes._

Watching my current muscle-man kneel in supplication, whipping him and pleasing him in turns. Hearing his words of worship and his pleas for mercy, as well as for your pussy.

"Please ma'am, please may I taste you again?"

"Taste me, Anthony. Yeah, like that. No! (snap of the leather paddle on his bare ass) _slower._ That's a good boy. Spread, suck, yeah… circle with your tongue… use your fingers inside…. ohhh yeah….drink…. Next I'm going to suck you… and if you come without my permission, I will whip the living shit out of you…."

"Yes, ma'am…."

Yeah, I smirk, once again back in the coffee shop.

 _I do like that_ _…_ _._

But there has to be something more to my existence than playing with boy-toys.

Now I'm really squirming.

Grace looks up from her coffee. I'm the first to break our heavy silence.

"Grace, what if Christian came to work for me in the warehouse? Not often, but when he has time. Maybe its work, and paid employment, that will help. Under the table pay of course."

Grace purses her lips, considering.

"He'll have to finish the year with a tutor. It's too late for a new school, so who knows what his schedule will look like. Carrick and I are running out of options for schools in the Seattle area. He's been thrown out of four now. But work may be what he needs, Elena. Sports don't seem to help. Cross country running wears him down a bit, and he seems to enjoy kickboxing, soccer, piano, sailing…" She trails off, shaking her head.

"Well, suggest it to Christian then. He can work with Anthony, moving the heavier items and loading them into the van and helping with deliveries. I even have work he can do at my house. God knows that Linc, as cheap as he is, would rather give a teenager a few bucks than hire professionals to do the heavy lifting."

Grace smirks at me. "Linc pays Anthony's salary at your warehouse, doesn't he? Whether he knows it or not."

"True. But Linc doesn't know or care what I do with the _allowance_ he sends my way. He only knows I'm occupied and out of his hair."

Linc, I laugh inside myself.

As sexual skill goes, I rate my husband a 1 on a graduating scale of 1 to 10. He gets a single point for being able to get it up. Once it's up, his idea of pleasing a woman is to stick it in, move around for a few seconds, come, and beat a hasty retreat out of the room. Same position. Same room. Same frustrating premature ejaculation bullshit, every time. I've counted fourteen seconds as his record.

And you ask why I sport-fuck the muscle-man hired help? _Please._

Grace interrupts by bitter reverie.

"Christian has a phone, Elena. Maybe you could call him and offer a visit to your store."

I laugh. "Of course he has a phone. Always on the front line of telecommunications, isn't he, Grace?"

"Yes, he talked us into it. A Nokia 9110 Communicator. Pricey."

"Do doubt."

"Well, he has free time now to help pay for his expensive gadgets," she disparingly says with an eye-roll. "Here, put his number into your phone…"

I make a show of adding young Christian's info to my phone's contacts, but I already have it. I drove him home from indoor soccer practice one rainy winter's night recently when Elliott couldn't (or wouldn't) do it, and kept his number. Again, that kid fascinates me but I'm not sure why.

Upon bringing him home that night, I recall him lingering in my passenger seat, the wipers going intermittently, clearing sleet from the windshield. He remained still and quiet, then looked up at me directly. Expectantly.

After a minute he opened the car door and said, "Thanks, Mrs. Lincoln" and was gone.

Those intense gray eyes. And he has the most beautiful lips. _Holy shit._

I try to forget, but can't.

"OK, Grace, I'll give him a call this weekend," I offer brightly and benignly. "He can come meet Anthony and have a look around the store."

"Oh, Elena," Grace sighs gratefully. "You are such a good friend."

"For you, my dear, anything." I pat her hand reassuringly.

After another ten minutes of general news and pleasantries, we part ways.

I set off for the walk back to the warehouse, quivering deep within while plotting the upcoming scene with the delicious viand awaiting me on the loft/office bed.

I'll tether him. Tony's muscular arms secured above his head, blindfolded, his musky male scent rising and intoxicating me, driving me to subjugate, own and break him. And I'll ride him, deep, lost in the recollection of someone else, someone whose unforgettable gray eyes haunt me and whose psyche within I must conquer.

"Flex your hips, Tony. Yeahhhh… good boy."

Hearing his groans and whimpers.

In response, I grind down harder and soak him.

"Don't you dare come, Christian." Oh, um, I mean… "Tony."

Muscle man doesn't seem to notice my slip.

And finally I will send my awestruck boy-toy home to his cheerleader confection, wrung out, and without a drop of manhood vitality remaining.

"Thank me," I direct Tony afterward as he kneels at my feet, naked and with his angry-red, freshly fucked ass in the air, knees parted.

"Ma'am," he breathes, trembling, and otherwise speechless.

Tonight I was merciless. Lost in fantasy, and angry with Anthony for not being…. well, for not being the someone I covet most and fully intend to claim eventually. But I have rules, with an age limit amongst them, the legal definition of 'adult' be damned.

"Look at me," I quietly demand.

Anthony's young, manly face tips up, tears wet on his cheeks, overcome with the intensity of our scene.

I raise my eyebrows expectantly.

"Thank you. Ma'am. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For…for…for being my goddess. For…for making me worship you."

I nod over him, satisfied, my cane gently carressing the fresh welts over his luscious asscheeks and the deep crevice of his gluteal cleft, not caring what his cheerleader twit at home may think of the stripes and welts I left.

"Good boy. Now stand."

He does, immediately but tremulously, and looks down into my eyes.

Tony is sweet, good-looking, and he's a pleaser. He's a good submissive. I drive him ruthlessly, and he always strives to give me his everything. When I finally let him come tonight, he pleased me by driving deep into my throat and realeasing himself loudly, impressively, copiously; every muscle in his taut body quivering with carnal joy, and sobbing his adoration for me. He did well.

I reach up and pat Anthony's tear stained cheek, considering sponge bathing his sweaty, sticky body with warm water and jasmine soap before he goes. But it pleases me, too, for him to return home awash in our evidence.

"Get the fuck out of here," I whisper, then turn my back, fold my arms, and wait until Anthony has hastily dressed and left the warehouse.

Then I straighten up the office/loft, smoothing the bed's satin coverlet and making a mental note to replace it this weekend with a freshly laundered one. I raise the hinged mattress into the murphy bed cabinet, then pick up and wash the toys used tonight, the stap-on harness, the jar of scented lube, blindfold, tethers, the choker chain, my leather 1/4 cup bustier and thong, and store everything neatly in the locking file cabinet below my desk.

There. All ready in case hubby dearest were to come poking around, which of course he won't because he would have to care before he would enquire.

I get dressed and brush my shiny blonde hair, contemplating adding a shower to the half bath beside my office.

Downstairs in the warehouse, I lock up.

 _Yes, there_ _'_ _s plenty for young Master Grey to do in here. Linc can pay his salary too._

Then I drive the Lexus home to where my solitary bed in a gilded cage awaits, planning along the way the phone call I want to make to my teen apprentice candidate this weekend.

 _Seeds must be planted early for optimal results to be reaped._

Patience, Elena….

Damn, they're getting younger and younger.

In time, I intend to reap the shit out of that boy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Elena L.**

 **2\. Contact**

Chic Salvage did a brisk business on Saturday. A sunny weekend in Seattle brings out the shoppers, particularly after the wet, bleak winter we've endured. Homeowners are eager to improve and make their stored dreams a reality.

I certainly could have used another pair of hands in the shop today, in addition to the Chinese MBA intern assigned to the shop for the month, courtesy of Linc's association with Seattle Pacific University. Then there's our Russian repair master, Dimitri, and his son of the same name, both exceedingly talented in up-cycling and repairing anything to working order.

Anthony arrived on-time and eager for occupation, as always. I inquired after his sleep last night.

Checking that we are alone, whispers close, "Like a fucking rock, Madam. The GF thought I was dead. She'd be right, nearly."

I turned away, preening. Selfishly, I wanted nothing left for her.

The work day progresses quickly and sales of in-store product is impressive. Contacts phoned with inside skinny on upcoming estate sales, and a trusted scout provided a heads-up on a wealthy octogenarian widow being moved to assisted living, her Broadmore manse ripe for the picking at auction.

At day's close, I found myself recording sale details in the oversized ledger, Tony beside me, counting and recording cash from the til.

"It's Saturday night, Mr. Sharpe. Have you any plans, you and the GF?"

He finishes counting out loud. "…sixty, eighty, ninety, eight hundred. We're seeing the Red Hot Chil Peppers at the stadium tonight."

I smiled broadly, happy for him - and a bit jealous. But it gives me an idea.

"Have a great time, Tony."

He looks up, meeting my eyes softly. "Thanks, Elena."

I stroke his bulging, tatooed bicep. "See you Monday."

"Yes, Ma'am."

After closing up I drive home, with no plans on the docket other than mixing a drink and listening to music. Linc goes to his golf club every Saturday night, not that his company is something I relish. He'll be home around 1 o'clock, long after I've been in bed, having spent hours marinating in Hennessey and smoking cigars with his cronies.

These are the times when I regret that we have no children. He has three from his first marriage and wants no more. Someday Linc will be gone, one way or the other, and I will be entirely alone. At 34 I look exceptionally good, so good that I retain a hot submissisve lover twelve years my junior, one who seems in no hurry to move on to marriage or a younger Dom.

At the wet bar I mix a drink: Tanqueray gin and tonic with lime. I carry it out to the poolside patio. I wrap my cableknit cardigan close around me, being a breezy and chill springtime evening, and I sit, putting my feet up on a lounge chair.

I wonder what Gray Eyes is doing tonight. Having been expelled from school yesterday, I can't imagine he's with friends. Surely he's at home, in his bedroom, alone. Maybe listening to music like me. Maybe watching TV. Maybe laying on his bed, thinking.

Maybe masturbating. What does young Christian think about when he's masturbating?

When he's mine, I'll put a stop to that. All of it will be mine. Only for me. He will learn total control under my training.

No premature ejaculation shit for my Christian. Never will he disappoint me or any other woman. I will teach him right. Never will he come first. I'll beat any shade of that bullshit out of him. Through me, he will be perfect. He will learn to use every tactic, every sense; sight, sound, taste, touch and expertly placed use of pain.

He will learn to give mind shattering orgasms, and he will learn subspace-land like the back of his hand. There will be no better lover anywhere, ever. All I've be taught, he will learn.

I will be his master, his tutor, his priestess. And Christian will be my masterpiece.

I take another sip of my gin and tonic, and look at my phone.

10 o'clock. Late, but not bad-manners late.

I pick up my Nokia, searching through my contacts.

Christian Grey.

 _Fuck it._ *call*

I sip as the line rings.

Once…twice…three times…

"Hullo?" his adolescent voice comes on the line.

"Christian?"

Warily he says, "Yes?"

"This is Mrs. Lincoln, your mom's friend."

A pause. "Oh. Yes. Hello, Mrs. Lincoln," he says politely. He wasn't sleeping, but he sounds subdued.

"Christian, I spoke to your mom yesterday and asked if you could come down to my salvage shop to work for me when you have time. I really could use your help you know, lifting things and helping with deliveries. I'd pay you. And you'd be working with a nice young guy who does work like that for me now. We really need another person. Would you be interested?"

He's silent, and I count the beats.

"Um, yes, I think so, Mrs. Lincoln. I'd be happy to come help you. It sounds like a cool job."

"Good, Christian. The store is closed for business on Sundays, but if you'd like, I could pick you up and take you to look at it. That's if you have the time."

He pauses again. "What time are you thinking, ma'am?"

His last word sends a thrill through my pelvis.

"Not early. Sleep in and I can pick you up around noon. Is that okay?"

"Sure. I can be ready at noon."

"We'll have lunch together at the shop," I add, prolonging the conversation.

"Yeah, okay, Mrs. Lincoln. Wait, um…did my mom ask you to give me a job?"

"No," I laugh. "I've been thinking about you for a while. And it was me who made the offer."

A pause. "She told you what I did on Friday, didn't she?"

I make my voice gentle. "Your fight? Yes, I know about it. I'm interested in hearing what happened. Will you tell me?"

Another pause. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Okay, Christian. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Good night."

"Good night, Mrs. Lincoln."

And I hang up, smiling broadly as the glass meets my lips. Step one is underway.

That night, in bed, I plan how this lunch date with Christian will go. I close my eyes in the moonlit darkness, bedded down in the sumptuous duvet of my extended length, full-size mattress (purchased specifically for occupancy of one) and drift in and out of sleep with sweet anticipation fluttering in my chest. There's something about that boy. This feeling… it's not a choice. It's a compulsion, a hunger.

Has Christian changed much over the past four months since I saw him last? He was in a rather gawky teen phase at New Year's. Is he taller? Did he cut that glorious auburn mop of hair or did he leave it long; more than wavy, less than curly? Even now I feel tingling between my fingers, wanting to delve deep in his hair, to massage his scalp, pressed close behind him, my breasts to his back and thighs tightly holding his hips, and whisper in his ear. Maybe something in Russian about how I love to touch him.

Distantly I hear a cough. The sound comes from outside, approaching from the garage. Holding my breath, I'm glad I remembered to lock my bedroom door. Now the cough is downstairs. Shit, it's getting closer.

 _Linc, go to bed. Take your stinking drunk ass and go to your own room. Leave me alone._

My eyes glance to the bedroom doorknob.

 _Don_ _'_ _t you do it. Don_ _'_ _t think you_ _'_ _re coming in here._

The doorknob turns and creaks. But the door stays closed.

I hear muttered, muffled expletives and then the cough again, right outside my door. Staggering steps retreat down the hallway toward the stairs. Is he going to the kitchen for the master key? With any divine mercy he'll fall down the stairs and lay there unconscious. Or will he pass out in the living room?

 _Either way, leave me alone._

I know, I know, it's terrible. But I fantasize about Linc's death daily. Nothing prolonged, violent or painful. Just final and freeing.

It must be an hour before I relax enough to drift toward sleep again, comforted by fantasies of tutoring my young apprentice in the arts of sensual pleasures. How will I begin this quest? Okay, let's call it what it is: a seduction.

I desire strongly to be his first, to teach him well, and to be the diversion he apparently needs, instead of ruining his future with hot-headed, violent outbursts. How will Christian become anything in this world if he can't control his temper? Control… that's what the boy needs to learn. Control of self and others.

Lessons I learned early.

Morning comes all too quickly, and I wake to find the day bright and full of promise. I'm out of bed by 6am, then showered and standing in my walk-in closet preparing my costume for the day. What image do I want to project? Youthful, carefree, soft, alluring, honest. I choose a newer pair of fitted, faded jeans and a close-fitting V-neck t-shirt in baby blue and white. My blonde hair is left down, softly falling over my shoulders.

No severe up-do and business attire today.

Minimal makeup. Just enough mascara to accentuate my eyes and powder to even my coloring. Pale pink lip gloss to draw the eyes.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I pour my tea and read the newspaper front page, enjoying the solitude of a sunny weekend morning. But not for long.

In velour bathrobe and leather slippers, hubby comes staggering into the kitchen.

"Did you make coffee?" are his first words.

"Good morning, dear. No, I didn't. I'm having tea."

He scoffs. "How many years does it take before you to notice that I drink coffee every morning?"

It's easier to accept the scolding than it is to debate his grievance.

"I'm sorry dear."

Linc sets about making his coffee, banging the percolator pot on the counter loudly.

He turns to stare at me. "Why do you lock your bedroom door at night?"

I blink once. "Because I sleep better when I know its locked."

He's silent, but I can't concentrate on the newspaper, knowing he's boiling over.

Again he stares at me. "Why are you dressed already? Where are you going?"

"I have work to do at the warehouse. We were very busy yesterday, and I anticipate a hectic week."

"You need to show me the books. This is no charity case, Elena. I want to know your little houseware's hobby is making money. I pay a fortune every month to lease that building you know."

"I really enjoy running my own business, Linc…"

"It is not _your_ business Elena, it is mine."

I take a settling breath, not wishing to wear habitual frustration on my face today.

"Linc, I know what you pay, and every month I prove to you a net profit. We can go over the books this evening if you'd like."

"Fine."

Without another word, my husband takes his coffee and heads to his study.

I decide now would be a good time to head to Chic Salvage and make a few furniture adjustments before my noon lunch date. Linc will be at the club playing 18 holes today, and besides, he hates the salvage shop, complaining that it smells of dust and besides, he finds old things distasteful.

 _Right on, buddy. With one crusty old item in mind, so do I._

Although the warehouse district of downtown Seattle is quite the opposite direction of where I will pick up Christian, I feel that preparation is of the essence.

I flick on a few lights inside Chic Salvage and tune the stereo behind the register area to 95.7 FM's classical station. The vast floorspace is quiet and dim. Perfect.

There's an intimate corner at the back of the warehouse I've had in mind, on the first floor. The corner was set up by our MBA intern and truly looks staged as if for an Edwardian era theatrical production, complete with a pair of newly upholstered wingchairs, a burgundy wool rug beneath, an ornate fireplace surround beside, and a charming brass chandelier, wired and in working order. A small side table of Burmese carved rosewood is placed just so. I stage the area to resemble an intimate rendezvous for two, whether it is used for that purpose today or not.

In another hour, I take out my Nokia and call Grace Trevelyan-Grey. Best to remain upfront and above suspicion in all things.

I've caught her returning from church and inform her that Christian is interested in a look around the warehouse and a brief job interview. She is thrilled and offers her warmest blessings.

Another box ticked.

Shortly after noon, I'm in the Grey's turnaround drive and a very tall and slim young Christian Grey opens the passenger door to my 1998 Lexus SC 400. As he looks appreciatively about the interior, I notice the evidence of his fight on Friday. Bruises and a swollen lip do nothing to detract from his beauty. He really is a stunning young man.

"Nice ride, Mrs. Lincoln," he says with a gently enthusiastic smile.

"Get in. Let's go for a drive," I tell him.

Christian pauses as if to consider whether he really wants to do this, then apparently decides the answer is yes. He gets in and fastens his seatbelt.

He's wearing khaki trousers and a white Polo shirt, pristinely ironed and well presented. On his feet are Doc Marten's brown leather ankle boots, a leather belt to match.

A brief span of uncomfortable silence ensues as I head out of the drive. I decide to take a chance that he's a car guy.

I pat the steering wheel and ask, "So what do you think of my baby, Christian?"

"It's alright."

I glance at him with a smile. "Just 'alright'?"

He turns in the passenger seat to look at me squarely, holding his assessing gaze while I can only look straight ahead.

"Since you ask, Mrs. Lincoln, I assume you want my honest opinion."

"Yes, of course."

"Well then, as far as automobiles go, my first love is German luxury engineering. Audi is my top choice. Then the Mercedes-Benz, Porsche and BMW. In that order."

"But…" I stammer, "But this is a _Lexus_!"

"It's a Toyota, Mrs. Lincoln. Japanese engineering is making an effort to catch up, but I'm not buying it. Did your husband give you this car?"

Unexpectedly I feel like I'm being interrogated. "Well…yes, he did."

"He should have bought you a Jaguar or an Aston Martin. Yeah, I can see you in a Jag. You have the beauty to carry it off."

He's still looking straight at my profile, no shyness or hesitation.

Sunday traffic is light, so I glance to take an appraising look at my young companion.

He continues, "Your husband is Carter Lincoln of Lincoln Timber, isn't he?"

""Yes."

Christian nods and looks ahead down the road. "Megabucks," he breathes. "He could have done better for you. I'll bet the purchase of this Lexus was leverage in a deal. A sweetener."

Being that I have no idea whether he's right or not, I say nothing except, "You may be right."

He's all self-assurance, adding, "I am right."

For the next ten minutes, Christian provides a smooth dissertation on the specifics of this make and model of Lexus as well as his prefered selections, telling me diplomatically and in-not-so-many-words that my automobile is inferior. He's a sharp kid, and he obviously loves not only luxury cars, but the good life in every way; boats, planes, helicopters as well.

"How do you know all this, Christian?"

"Reading, ma'am. Reading is fundamental," he replies, quoting the slogan.

"What else do you read?"

He turns his piercing gadze to me again. "I do my reasearch. On people."

"People?"

"Yeah. I like to know my friends as well as adversaries. You'd be surprised what an inquisitive search of public records can produce."

 _Holy shit_ , is this kid really fourteen? I glance quickly at him, and I'm sure my expression is one of wide eyed wariness.

"Please, call me Elena."

"I think not, ma'am."

"Why not?"

"Because Elena isn't your given name. If we're going to be real, then let's be real. If not, then take me home."

I have an overwhelming desire to extend my hand and touch his fingers, to see if he is in fact real, because I have my doubts.


	3. Interview

**3\. Interview**

We arrive downtown and I parallel park in front of Chic Salvage. We exit the Lexus and I unlock the front door, leading Christian into the quiet, dusky warehouse, flicking on a few lights as we go. Christian remains silent, walking ahead and following the narrow, winding aisle examining the eclectic treasures lining his path. Meanwhile I appraise his shape.

Christian has grown in height significantly since the first of this year. If not six foot, he's close. His weight I'd guess at 135 lbs. There's not an ounce of excess fat on him which stands to reason. He's a cross-country runner and soccer player. I ponder his choices in minimal contact sports. Regardless of the reason, he's definitely got endurance, and that's what matters to me most.

His shoulders are broad. I imagine that he lifts weights, and although he doesn't yet have muscle bulk, he likely has definition under that shirt. It's difficult to tell. I continue to follow him to the back of the warehouse. Alone and secluded, I suddenly feel a bit guilty having led a teenager to a carefully crafted den of seduction.

"Do you want to phone your mom, to let her know you're here and okay?" I ask.

He turns and looks at me squarely with those captivating grey eyes. "No."

Jeez, now I'm the one who's nervous.

My own voice sounds shaky. "Christian, I ordered some lunch for us. It should be here soon. Sub sandwiches from down the block." And the unintentional irony makes me snort a laugh.

He looks at me warily. "I'm okay with subs."

"Good," I nod, hiding my smirk. " I didn't know what you drink, so I got you San Pellegrino, a Sprite and a Coke."

"Water is always fine. Sparkling works."

Enough of this awkward lead-up.

"Christian," I sigh heavily, "listen, I like you. I asked you to come here because I don't want to see you in trouble at school or with your family. I want us to be friends."

He's silent, lips parted, unsure of what to make of his bizarre surroundings and this mostly strange lady telling him she likes him.

I was soon to learn that, in all things, when Christian's equilibrium is shifted, he not only recovers at lightning speed but turns the tables most adeptly.

He steps toward me. "You want to be my friend?"

"Yes. Christian, I feel something about you. An affinity, a draw. Like you're a kindred spirit." I sigh and add, "I know that sounds silly."

"No, it doesn't. You feel like we've done this before. Is that right, Mrs. Lincoln? Maybe a long time ago, somewhere else?" He's standing directly in front of me now. _Oh my, those lips._

Somehow, he's running this meeting. I feel quite under his thumb, flustered and blushing, neither of which I've done for ages. This doesn't happen to me in the presence of men. Correction: boys.

"Christian, let's get a few things straight." I say firmly and stand taller. "When we are alone, I want you to call me Elena. Unless directed otherwise."

 _Ma_ _'_ _am, Madam or my Mistress. Thosecan wait._

While looking down at me, he says, "What else do you want to get straight, _Elena_?"

 _Oh my._ Young Christian knows his power.

"This." I swallow hard and say, "It's monumentally important. That you can trust me. Nothing you tell me or show me or do…here…will go any further. This is your safe place, and if you like, your confessional."

"Why? Why are you offering all this?"

I pause and think of why I'm doing this, deciding to divert him before I act truly irrationally.

"You see a therapist. How is that working out for you, Christian?"

"Therapists? Really?" The spell is broken and he scoffs at the word. "Okay, let's see. I've been through half a dozen therapists. If one more of them takes fucking inventory of my history, then asks ' _how do you feel about that, Christian?_ ' I'm going to lean across his cheap-ass wooden veneer Office Depot desk and strangle him with his bargain basement JC Penney tie. I've not met one yet that can hear what I'm fucking saying."

I'm effectively silenced.

He settles his burst of anger. "Sorry for the profanity, Elena."

God damn, his mind is so quick.

Catching my breath, I venture, "All the more reason there needs to be total trust between us. You and me. And it goes both ways. I think you can learn a lot from me, and I can from you."

He licks his lips, eyes casting across the floor. "Do you have many friends?" he asks.

I smirk and speak the truth, "No. Lots of acquaintences but no one I trust implicitly."

"What about your husband?"

I scoff bitterly, "Linc? Seriously? Absolutely no, no way. Not ever."

"Then why are you married to him?"

I can't believe fourteen year-old Christian Grey and I are having this conversation. He clearly is not ike any teenager I've ever known, even when I was a teenager. There's something sensible and solid about him. He's lived lives before. He's certain and experienced and versed well beyond his years. This kid has seen some shit.

His gray eyes pull from me an unspoken confession; one I've never revealed to anyone.

"I married Linc because my mother told me to. She said, _and I precisely mimic my mother_ _'_ _s Russian accent_ "You'll not starf. You'll have cloths. Who cares for love? He want pretty girl, and he take care of you."

Christian looks down at me from his excellent posture and height, nodding his understanding.

"What is your real name, Elena Lincoln? Don't lie to me because I already know the answer."

His audacity!

"What's your's Christian?" I counter, knowing he's adopted. Who knows where, when or how his given name appeared? Does _he_ know?

"Christian Grey is the only name I've been told or can recall. Beyond that," he shrugs, "I'll never know."

"You must have a birth certificate. Everybody has one."

"Yeah," he says. "Of course I do. But I've never looked at it. I don't want to see it."

"Why?"

He shakes his head. "I don't want to be that kid again. He belongs to a far-away place a long time ago. He's dead. Knowing his name will resurrect him."

I quietly try to process that. His existence before being adopted must have been quite traumatic. To pull him out of this dark topic, I answer his question about my name.

"You want to know my original name? Before I was married? It was Yelena Svetlana Kazakova."

He nods, a gentle smile playing upon his sweet lips. _Information confirmed._

I realize we're standing in a cluttered aisle of Chic Salvage's warehouse.

At the same time there's a knock on the locked front door. The sandwiches. I go to pay the delivery man and bring in our packed drinks and lunches. I take them to the Edwardian stage-set, urging Christian to take one of the chairs. Silence ensues while we eat.

Tension of strangers alone together has decreased significantly. A different kind of tension has taken its place; one I like.

Christian wants to be certain of my trustworthiness, and I'm ready to give it all.

"You were saying?" he continues between mouthfuls. "About your name."

"Yes, I don't go by Yelena anymore."

"Why?"

"I dropped it in high school. Kids were merciless. They'll find any reason to ridicule."

"Yeah, no shit." Christian's gray eyes look at me, serious and smoldering. "Why do you think I got expelled from school on Friday?"

I shrug. "Someone gave you a hard time, and in response you beat the crap out of him?"

"Somewhat. I was already on probation at that school. The headmaster and board were done with me."

"Why do you fight, Christian? What sets you off?"

He sighs long and heavy. "The school year starts out fine. But then they catch on. All of them. They figure it out."

I continue with my sandwich, raising my eyebrows in a 'go on' expression.

"I'm fucking weird. I know it. I've always known it. It's just becoming more… _vivid_ and problematic. Can I call you El? Elena seems so formal."

"Yeah, sure."

"Alright. El. Here it is. I'm not right. People instictively know that I'm not right."

"Not right?" I repeat, puzzled.

"Yeah. Here and here," he says, touching his head and chest.

"They approach me like I'm some bizarre mythical creature. They want to touch me. They can't fucking stop touching me," Christian says, his anger rising.

"Christian, they want to touch you because you're beautiful," I laugh. "Even guys, though they probably do it to provoke you, out of jealousy. To test you. And girls? Well can anyone blame them for wanting to put their hands on you?"

"I can't stand to be touched," he continues, mired in escalating outrage. "There's sports I can't play because of it. I can't go out for wrestling. I can't play football. I thought soccer was safe, but if you do well then everyone wants to fucking hug you and pile on top of you. I can't go out for swimming or diving because then they'll see it. They'll ask questions."

"They'll see what?"

He ignores my question.

"Some dickhead douchebag couldn't keep his fucking hands off me last fall. I decked him at the Homecoming football game and it somehow turned into an all-out brawl between my school and the opposing team, though they didn't start it. Now the douchebag has my girl. She dumped me a few weeks ago, and she's with him."

The pain in his gray eyes is tremendous; it fills the space and makes me breathless.

"He just kept pushing me, gloating. So I decked him again. Broke out the fucker's teeth. His friends jumped in, and I had to kick the crap out of them too."

"Oh no," I whisper. There's going to legal trouble.

But Christian is still simmering about the girl. "Let's see how she likes kissing that shithead now."

Silent, I sit there, shaking my head in disbelief. Or dismay.

"Do you still want me here?" he asks softly and lifts his face to meet my eyes.

"Yes," I say, meaning it. "Of course. More than ever."

His frame relaxes and he continues with his sandwich and San Pellegrino.

"I liked her a whole lot, and I thought she liked me," he continues. "As I said, I'm weird, El. I can kiss girls and grind on them, and feel up their tits. But then they want to touch me, and I can't have that. Not from anyone." He pauses, then adds, "I guess she had enough of my weirdness. She's just gone. She wouldn't take my phone calls. Wouldn't talk to me when I saw her. And then I saw her with him. Laughing and hugging him."

My heart breaks for him. "Oh, Christian, I'm sorry. That hurts. I know."

"Yeah, pain and me seem to go together. I just want to fucking die."

"No you don't. Christian, you've got so much life ahead of you. So much to experience and contribute to the world. You're so intelligent and good and beautiful."

"I'm going to be alone until I die," he says with real conviction. "I've known for a long time; I can never have a normal relationship, ever. Touch…it kills me inside, El. Touch is supposed to be pleasant, right?"

"Yes."

"It awakens demons that live in me," he says, gray eyes dark and desperate. "I'd do anything to keep them quiet. They rise up and they torture and terrorize me."

Leaning forward, I take his hand. "Can I touch you here?" I ask, stroking his hand. "Are your hands okay to touch?"

He nods.

His hands bear the evidence of the fight two days ago. I bring the back of his hand to my lips. "Christian. There's a way." But I'm nowhere near ready to introduce him to that way. The way that I learned when I was his age. The way that made me all I am today, for better or for worse. Patience…

We fall silent for a few minutes. The radio's classical music continues to float through the warehouse. Lunches finished, we're in our leather chairs turned toward one another.

He shuts his eyes, listening and _feeling_ the music.

"You know this?" I ask quietly.

"I play this. Pachelbel's Cannon in D."

Too soon, the music goes to commercial. "So, El," he says abruptly."Tell me about your Russian parents. They're both alive. They're from St. Petersburg. They run a dance studio in Tacoma."

"You do your homework, kid, I'll say that for you," I admit with a smirk. "When did you research all of this?"

He's turned to me fully, his fingers now at my bicep, toying with my t-shirt's sleeve. "After my parent's New Year's Eve party. You danced with me, remember?"

Not really. It was a very _wet_ party. I shake my head apologetically.

"And you kissed me," he adds.

 _Oh shit._ I hope I didn't make a spectacle in front of everyone, but I entirely see myself doing so. Grace permitted me to take her son away today, so it couldn't have been that bad.

"Christian," I breathe. "I wish I remembered that."

"I wish you did too. It was memorable," he says softly, cocking his head to one side. "You interest me too, El."

I couldn't say why at the time, but surely we're cut from the same cloth.

I have a pleasure in confessing to young Christian Grey, and I think he can say the same of me. Besides, he likely already knows all the answers to my secrets, and being caught in a trap of lies would only destroy trust and take him further away. My desire is to be closer. And so I launch into an abridged summary of my history, deciding to leave inthe unflattering specifics.

"As you seem to know, my parents are Soviet ex-pats."

He nods.

"They came to New York in the 50's. They're competetive ballroom dancers. Sounds glamorous but there's no money in it unless you win the major prize competitions. They never won the title of World Champions but they're panelists on the International Council for Ballroom Dancing. They competed for nearly twenty years. Brits almost always win. My parents won 3rd place in 1973 and 2nd place in 1979."

He's silent, his lovely eyes fixed on mine, listening intently. _He_ _'_ _s remembering every detail_ , I remind myself.

"I was born in New York City. We lived in Crown Heights, Brooklyn when I was a kid. I have three much-older siblings. My father supplemented the family income by working for the Russian mafia. He spent time at Riker's Island for racketeering and felonious assault. My brother Sergei too. Sergei is old enough to be my father incidently. Once Pop got out, we left New York and moved to Tacoma. I was twelve. They opened a dance studio where they teach ballroom dancing and do choreography."

Christian's gray eyes are intent and lips parted.

"Holy shit," he says, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Your father and brother are in the Russian mafia. I knew about their criminal record but… not that."

There's no point denying it. Once in the game, always in the game.

"Yep. A middle class upbringing for me, Christian, with a lingering black cloud. Seattle society would be scandalized. I've worked very hard to obscure those facts. It's crazy that a fourteen year old kid can find it all, no problem."

He smiles wryly and shrugs. "I've got talents, Mrs. Lincoln. You'd be amazed at what I can do."

My breathing is audible and short. Looking at his fingers still toying with my sleeve, I _will_ for him to show me what he can do.

As if to tease, he backs up, taking his hand away and creating distance. "Do you do ballroom dancing too?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes. I competed on the junior level. For most of my career, I didn't crack the top ten for the World title. When I finally did, my partner went and died on me."

"Died? Of what?"

It's a painful memory. "Motorcycle versus truck. Amazing how the truck always wins," I state with sarcasm. "So you see, Christian, I'm a major disappointment to my parents."

"Agnessa and Maxim," he says. What a memory he has!

"Correct."

"Will you teach me?"

I smile from deep within. "Ballroom dancing? I would love to teach you."

Christian smiles back at me, beautifully. "Okay."

"Come, stand here with me." He does and I step close to him, looking up into his face, my breasts barely touching his chest. I had puzzled how I would begin directing his body to accept my will, and the answer presented itself so readily.

"We'll start with the waltz." I take his right hand. "This hand goes around my body. Place it on my low back."

He does as asked.

"Good. Now I'll place my hand on your right shoulder."

He tenses, gasps and licks his lips, trying to maintain composure.

Gently I whisper, "This touch makes you uncomfortable?"

Breathless, he lifts his chin, stretching his neck, considering my question. "Be still. Let me get used to this."

 _No trouble there, can stand here all night._

I take his left hand and position it correctly, holding my right.

He exhales sharply, his right hand firmly on my low back, holding me close to his body. His arousal is evident. He squeezes my right hand in his left.  
"I want you to become very comfortable with me in your arms, Christian. We'll practice this, often."

He looks down at my face, then to the deep cleavage revealed by my V-neck t-shirt. He swallows hard.

"Okay that's enough," he says and lets me go, backing away. "Oh God, what an insane dichotomy," he exclaims, almost to himself.

"What is? All the negativity of being touched combined with the pleasure of holding a woman's body close to yours?"

He exhales sharply and gasps out an amused, "Yes."

"We are going to work on that, baby. When I'm done with you, your body will move with the grace of an angel; not just when dancing, but with any physical exertion, no matter what, where, when or with whom. You'll react without hesitation. Decisive, controlled, measured. If you trust me."

The time is getting late. I'll need to return him home.

He stands straight, fully composing himself again. "I'm not done asking you questions."

"Okay. What more would you like to know?"

"After you stopped competing in ballroom dancing, then you married Carter Lincoln. You're his third wife."  
"Those are statements, Christian, not questions."

"Are they true or not?"

"They're true."

"Lincoln's marital history: divorced, died, and then hot young chick."

"Yes," I gently laugh, appreciating the compliment.

"You were only twenty-two. Why did you do it?"

I sigh heavily. "Oh Christian, I was taught that it's better to find protection with a rich man. I wanted approval. I wanted the good life. I wanted to escape. Then a rich man made me an offer."

Christian's eyes are knowing and pained. "I'm going to be a rich man."

"I do believe you are," I agree, stroking his cheek."Unfortunately you're too young for me."

"Who says?" he asks quietly, a burning flare in his eyes.

I smile, liking him more with each minute. "Society says."

"Fuck society."

I'm mezmerized by his mouth when he says the word 'fuck' and try not to gasp noticably.

"My sweet baby," I whisper. "We can figure that out. In the meantime, be my secret friend. True best friends are better than anything."

He holds out his hand to shake. "Best of friends, Yelena. Agreed?"

I take his hand and warmly cover our shake with my left. "Christian, darling. Agreed."


	4. Chapter 4

**4\. Trust**

As the afternoon progresses, I show Christian around the warehouse. The plank floors creak beneath our feet as we traverse the narrow paths, everything silent within the brick building. He sees Dimitri's workshop; its tabletops strewn with incomplete projects. Lastly I show him the dank basement where rows of white porcelain clawfoot bathtubs are stored.

"The tubs are too heavy for just you and Anthony to carry. I hire moving men to bring them upstairs and load them into trucks."

At the top of the basement stairs, I shut off the light and close the door.

"Anthony. Who's Anthony?" Christian asks, pausing to look at me directly.

"He's the nice young guy who works with me," I answer blithely, not interested in going into _those_ specifics right now."He does most of the physical work. You'll be working with him sometimes, depending on your availability."

"Uh-huh," Christian says and turns away. His senses are disturbingly acute.

"How often do you think you can work here?" I ask.

Christian considers that gravely. "My availability is very uncertain. When you phoned last night, my parents and I had just finished a long and solemn conversation about what lies ahead for me."

"Yes, I thought you sounded a bit down."

"I just feel badly. Grace and Carrick are such good people. They deserve better. They took a chance on me and I turned out to be such a shit. Such a fuck-up."

"Hey," I whisper and he looks at me. "Your parents love you. Don't ever doubt that."

"I know where I come from. Maybe that's where I belong. Maybe I behave like trash because I _am_ trash. My parents will come to the end of their patience."

Those words out of this amazing young person break my heart. I remember feeling that way about myself. Christian needs to get through this dark time without self destructing. My mind is a frenzy of ideas, remembering myself at his age and the drastic measures it took to redirect me. But I don't want to think about that now. Tonight, when I'm alone in my room. That's when I'll think about _him_. My _forever_ Master, through whom I found who I truly am. And was saved.

"The year was going pretty well," Christian continues,"except for the Homecoming incident. And then this latest _brawl_ , as they call it. Carrick pulled a lot of strings to keep me from being expelled when that happened in the fall. He also managed to keep me from being thrown off the soccer and cross country teams."

I lead him back to the Edwardian stage set where I clear up in preparation for our departure.

We fall silent for a few minutes. The radio's classical music continues to float through the warehouse. We settle in our leather chairs, turned toward one another.

He's calm. Better than calm, he's at peace.

"Do Grace and Carrick suggest a plan for the remainder of this school year?" I ask.

"Yes. Tutors. I'll be home-schooled for the rest of the year. They already started making arrangements for tutors to come to the house. I guess they were waiting for something like this to happen. And why shouldn't they? This is the eighth fight."

"Eighth?" I repeat, astounded.

"Yes. Four school expulsions, four probationary incidents. I'm really such an asshole," he adds, shaking his head.

"Chistian," I sigh. "This time wasn't your fault. You were provoked by the sounds of it."

He holds my gaze directly. "What am I going to do in life when someone provokes me during a business meeting? Start an all-out rumble in the board room? Chairs fllying, blood everywhere, glass shattering?"

He smirks and I giggle. It's a funny image really; grown Christian in a suit, climbing across the boardroom table and throwing punches at the other suits.

"No," I reply but can't control my smile. "That would never do."

"I know. They talk about sending me to military school. They also talk about boarding school in France."

 _What?!_ "Why France?"

"French is the language class I've taken since grade school. And Grace's sister has a home in Lyon. Last year she and her husband offered for me to spend the summer there. Maybe I should have gone."

"Oh," I dejectedly respond, feeling that my new best friend is going to leave me. Already.

Christian's assessing gaze at me is concerned, but he knows the situation is out of his hands.

"Do you have a stereo in here?" he asks brightly, changing the subject. "I like listening to music when I'm working on something."

"Yes, sure. It's over there on the shelf behind the register," I say, pointing. "Bring CDs. If you're here after closing, play whatever you want."

He goes to look at the stereo's multiple CD changer, then walks toward the stairs that lead up to my second-story office.

"What's up there?"

I look up the stairs to the shut door at the top.

"An office. With a bed and a half bathroom."

He turns inquisitive gray eyes to me. "A bed? You sleep here?"

"Sometimes."

It's not entirely untrue. I've napped on the murphy bed a few times.

With the drapes closed and lighting low, it becomes my playroom. My inventory of implements is purposely minimal. I don't require a vast variety. It's only the truly zealous sadists who will display racks of their instruments of pain like trophies. They'll visit them when alone, touch them, truly hearing and re-experiencing the screams and cries.

In my underground world of domination and submission, I have not become acquainted with a single dom who doesn't connect a specific submissive's identity to each cane, whip, belt or flogger in their arsenal. Tethers are multi-use and can be seen as part of the apparatus and furniture. But the actual implements… the instrument that physically links a dom's hand to the sub's tender skin and elicits those coveted cries we so lust after, each is selected for our specifically chosen devotee. They are chosen with care and thought, then after the arrangement has expired, they are displayed and retired. But each item continues to provide pleasure in its untouched, inert state.

All of my implements are up there I reflect as I look up the stairs. Carefully stored is a museum of my history in domination and submission. Favorites remain, like religious artifacts.

I look at Christian. Yours will be there too, baby, once I've decided upon them. Your name will be written on them in a way only I can see and associate.

Christian isobviously interested in seeing my private space and asks for me to take him up there.

I consider…and hope I can behave myself better than I did at the Grey's New Year's Eve party. This may push my limits of restraint perilously. At very least, it will provide some much needed fantasy material for later tonight.

I hold out my hand to him and say, "Yes. Come."

He takes my hand and we ascend the stairs to my loft/bedroom.

I open the door. The room glows softly with late afternoon light. Its cozy but spacious enough with the full mattress stored upright in the murphy cabinet.

"This is your office?"

"Yes."

"Where's your computer?"

I'm startled. "I don't have a computer. All book-keeping is done the old fashioned way, using bound leather ledgers. My husband doesn't think computers are necessary in business."

Amused, Christian shakes his head and I faintly hear a derisive reaction. Maybe he said, "M _oron_."

"Yeah, I smell leather," he says. "But the ledgers are on the counter by the register downstairs."

 _What you smell are leather restraints, baby, and a neck collar._

"Is that your bed?" he asks, glancing at it.

"Yes."

I'm looking up at him, still holding his hand. Tonight, alone in my bedroom at the Lincoln estate, remembering standing here with Chrstian, my toys will take no time at all to get me there.

Christian turns to face me fully. "I like the scent in here. It's pretty and sexy. It smells like…like spring flowers and…" He leans into me, close to my neck so that I feel my hair move. "…and you. It's stirring."

"Stirring?" I smile. "Where did you see that word used?"

He shrugs. "I've only every heard or read it used. Now I know what it means."

The silence draws out.

"Yelena," he whispers, looking down at me, and then looks further down at the front of his khakis. My eyes follow his, and I can see the evidence of Christian 'stirred.'

"Is that all the scent you can detect in here?" I ask, unadvisedly.

 _Shut up, Elena_ _…_ _._

His eyes are on mine, then sweep around the room. "No, there's something else. It's… male. And musky. Leather and…?"

 _Good boy. What you smell is sex, Christian._ And my crop and whip. And maybe the scented lube used so liberally on Anthony's ass two nights ago.

Shall I open the cabinet and lower the mattress? Only to remove the sheets….

Danger alarms are going off in my head. He's fourteen! I have set a strict age limit and must fight not to breach it. In another two months he will have reached my personal minimum age of consent, though he is very clearly consenting right now. Yes, undeniably.

Looking up at him, and my eyes linger on his lips. Swollen from the fight as they may be, I am overcome with the beauty of their shape and my desire to kiss them. Someone punched them two days ago. I want to be the antithesis to his pain and bring my lips and tongue to comfort them.

The danger alarms blare more insistently. This can't happen, not today. Not yet. I must bring him home and leave him there. Christian, too, must consider what he thinks of our newfound connection. It's all too much, all at once.

"Baby boy," I whisper up to him. And in lieu of a much desired kiss I raise my hand to my mouth, lick my thumb wet, then smear saliva across his lower lip. Immediately his tongue licks my thumb and lips close around it, his tongue swirling over the soft pad as he sucks.

 _Fucking hell._ I inhale sharply, absolutely taken.

Christian and I are going to have some fun together.

"I need to bring you home now." My voice is strained and unrecognizable.

He steps back, a wry smile on his lips. "Okay, El. Another time perhaps."

I don't trust myself to speak. We need to exit this space. This seductive cove is rife with the echo of passionate cries and pleas. I can feel the dizzying inspiration of my most limit-pushing explorations here.

I take Christian's hand and we exit my office/bedroom, then lock up the warehouse.

"When do you think you can give me a couple of hours of work?" I ask minutes later, on the drive back to the Grey mansion.

"Tomorrow. No arrangements for tutors will be made yet. I'll call you and let you know."

I like Christian's direct responses. No hesitation. No doubt. Self-assurance will serve him well in the business world.

It's late afternoon, and I will have him home well before supper time. Grace will be pleased.

A thought comes to me.

"Christian, there are times when I'm home alone. I have my own bedroom and sitting room. Will you visit me there? I'd like for you to come watch some videos of dance competitions. And maybe we can have a lesson. We'll work on the waltz."

I glance at him beside me and he's looking down at his hands, smiling.

"Yes, I can do that," he replies.

"Where will you tell your family you've gone?"

He shrugs. "It depends. I have a lot of privacy. My parents are very sociable and go out for the evening frequently. Elliott is left in charge of me, but as soon as Grace and Carrick are gone, he gets in his car and disappears. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Davis, is one year younger than God and naps like death. She's supposed to watch Mia, but you know Mia; she doesn't need watching."

We pull up into the Grey's turn-around, but I stay well back from the house. He takes off his seatbelt but doesn't exit the car just yet.

"Let me see your phone," Christian requests authoritatively.

I hand over my Nokia.

He looks it over. "We're compatible. Good. You can text me. But you should upgrade. Did your husband buy you this phone too?"

I smile at his bold, commanding tone. "Yes, he did."

Christian hands it back. "This will be obsolete in another year. In a museum in another ten years."

I'm incredulous. "What? You're crazy," I protest with a _tsk_. "What more does anyone want a phone to do than make calls and text? Next you'll be saying you can shop for shoes using your phone."

"El, your phone can interface with computers via cellular data card. It can…"

"Ok, fine! Thank you. Too much information for one day, boy wonder. God, you're such a geek!"

He pauses, assessing me. "I'm a techie for sure. But stay tuned, Elena. The world is changing by the minute. Be on the forefront or get run over. I choose to be on the forefront. And tell Mr. Lincoln to buy you an Apple iMac. Your business should be computerized. I'll get you set up and sorted out. "

I turn my body toward him, quickly glancing down at the open V of my t-shirt, determined to keep the purpose of our friendship on track.

"Okay, Christian. At any rate, thank you. I've enjoyed our afternoon together, very much."

He looks in my eyes fully. "No more than I, surely."

An expectant silence befalls.

I take his hand and again bring bruised knuckles to my lips, glancing at the house and hoping we are unobserved. I softly kiss his knuckles and subtly lick his skin. His gray eyes heat and intensify, fixed on mine.

I'm reminded of a thermometer on a hot day; of mercury, the only liquid metal, rising. Rising.

"So, hands are fine for touch?" I offer, curious as to where else is okay. "And lips apparently."

He nods. "Don't worry. I'll stop you when you get too close to my no-touch zones."

This is another matter we need to get straight. "Christian, nothing and nowhere will be forbidden to me. If we play, and I fully intend to play, then I'm going to have it all."

He gasps. The fire in his stormy eyes turns up several notches.

The front door opens and little sister Mia comes bounding out. I release Christian's hand.

I can hear his low, frustrated growl.

Mia appears at the Lexus' driver's side window. "Hi, Mrs. Lincoln!" Mia says in her piping voice.

"Well hello, Miss Mia!"

"Chistian, Dad's looking for you."

The child and I exchange pleasantries, she telling me about her latest ballet lesson. Meanwhile Christian climbs out of my car. He leans down to the window and mouths "text me." I nod, then he saunters off to the house, disappearing through the front door.


	5. Chapter 5

**5\. Dues**

That evening, Linc and I sit in prickly silence at the kitchen breakfast bar while I re-file and sort a year's worth of receipts for items bought and sold through his pet project, Chic Salvage. Included are rent receipts, utility bills and records of salaries paid. He is begrudgingly satisfied that the business is safely in the black. There must be _something_ he can criticize.

With reader specs set far down his nose, Linc taps the figures on the legal pad with his pen.

"You pay that young Welsh fella too much. Cut his salary. Same for that father and son fix-it combo."

I heave a heavy sigh. "Linc, all three do an excellent job. They're trustworthy, punctual and precise. Dimitri senior is a brilliant craftsman. He's worth much more than I pay him."

"Oh yeah? Being that he's your father's former _business associate_ ," Linc says acidly, "he's lucky to be employed at all. He should probably still be in the clink, he and Maxim both."

My ire fires straight into the stratosphere. "Don't talk about my father like that."

He snickers. "Maybe if you had been more forthcoming with the truth about your antecedents when we married, Elena, I wouldn't now have to expend so much effort and money to cover them up. I give that Dimitri a job because he's somehow related to you, and convicted felons are typically unemployable. Your parents me asked a favor."

"You haven't covered anything up, Carty. My father's record is common knowledge as far as I know. Your children surely know about it," I seethe, speaking of Linc's adult children, otherwise known (in my mind) as the Spawn of Hell. Fond of one another we are not.

He gets up from the kitchen island barstool. "You heard me. Cut their salaries," he says with a nod to the legal pad.

"Dear," I force myself to sweetly say before he leaves the room. "I need a computer."

He stares at me. "A computer? What for? To manage that rinky-dink business selling crap that would otherwise end up in the city landfill?"

"To manage the business, yes. Because of all of this," I say, indicating the envelopes, accordion folders and plastic baggies littering the breakfast bar, each holding Chic Salvage's paper trail. I'm beginning to lose my temper. "That Chinese MBA intern is certainly going to report to the faculty at Seattle Pacific University that Carter Lincoln's side projects are organized using old fashioned ledgers and notebooks held together with rubber bands."

Maybe pride will light a fire under his cheap ass. Value of my opinion certainly won't.

"Elena, an associates degree from South Seattle Community College doesn't make you Bill Gates or Andrew Carnegie. But fine, you want a little toy on the counter-top at the store to impress your customers and girlfriends? Go ahead. Call my secretary and arrange for an inexpensive computer to be delivered."

Before vacating the kitchen he adds, "Leave your door unocked tonight."

I shut my eyes and my stomach turns.

From down the hall he calls, "I'm going to the club. I won't be back for dinner."

 _Good. Fuck off._

How much longer am I going to do this?

I pour myself a gin and tonic and take it to my suite. After changing into a satin chemise, I settle on the plush loveseat with my phone beside me. I turn on some music and find myself hungry for companionship. How lovely would it be to have young Christian join me here tonight? Would it be so wrong to invite him to my sitting room to talk? To watch a movie with me?

The Eagles' _Lyin_ _'_ _Eyes_ come on the radio, surely proof that a divine sense of humor does exist.

I think of Anthony and the pleasures so readily available there. Like his California bimbo, Tony seems to me like a sugary confection. Expendable and of little substance. Tasty nonetheless.

My fingers crave young Christian's okay-to-touch zones. Curiosity seeks a reaction in his fine features. He's an old soul, imprisoned in a child's body. Inside that young body, Christian is mature and hungry and ready. Thankfully his body is maturing at lightning speed.

My phone is set to 'vibrate.' Calls and texts are essential to my private life and maintenance of my sanity.

My bedroom door is unlocked however, as requested. _Paying dues is a bitch._

I pop a tape into the VCR and watch footage of my Ballroom Dancing Junior World's routine from 1980. I was fifteen; about the same age as Christian is now. I watch a younger me, paired with my then-partner, a boy from Sacramento, executing the Viennese Waltz. My pale blue gossamer costume was sewn by Agnessa and I at our kitchen table, and it was my pride and joy.

Once again I feel my nerves strung tight, my heart racing, the pressure from my coach and from my partner's coach ringing in my head, praying to do everything right and not fail them. Here, watching us dance, years later, I'm impressed by my partner's grace, and mine also to some degree. I'm sure to the untrained eye this would look like a gloriously perfect performance.

But I see my failings. My chin is lifted slightly too high, my smile not quite natural enough, anxiety in my eyes, my elbows not drawn in quite close enough, my posture wanting. Everything about me looks stiff. We came in tenth that day.

My partner's coach was furious and blamed me entirely. I never saw that partner from Sacramento again. That night, in the emptied auditorium, Agnessa and Maxim held one another and cried, leaving me to stand apart and grieve alone.

I swore to do better next time, and within a few months I had a new partner; one commisioned _fromthe mother land_ by my tenacious parents. My new partner was Alexsander, a Russian. He, of course, had his own coach, one of Moscow's literal gods of the dance arts, Evgeni Kustov.

Evgeni was dark haired, had luminous green eyes and an amazingly athletic body. He was gorgeous. At age fifteen, my crush was instantaneous on this serious, intense and rather conceited master of all he surveyed. I couldn't look in his eyes and or at his handsome face, he was that beautiful. When I did, I would be lost to speech, thought and reason.

With my eyes cast down, Evgeny was pleased by my humility. His voice, in thick accent, was enough to set fire to my soul. From our first introduction, Evgeni claimed me with some unearthly power or spell, demanding obsequious servility combined with the height of perfection; polar opposites that had me stretched, exposed and vulnerable.

I _loved_ it. I loved being controlled by him.

I found that in the hands of an expert, being controlled is supremely pleasurable. I was more myself in that role than at any time in my life, before or since. It was as if this stranger from my parents' _old country_ could silently speak the language of which I was most fluent, whereas no one else could.

He had total access to me, since I practically lived in the dance studio. He took up residence in the basement apartment below it. Evgeny was my demigod. He drew me like a magnet, helpless. My will, reticence and imperfections were conquered and under his tutelage, and I performed for the first time without anxiety, second-guesses, hesitation or imperfection. I emerged: a butterfly from its chrysalis.

In total submission, Evgeny dragged me down into a black, ethereal plane of subservience where I was taken by him in ways my young mind never imagined. Body, mind and soul were penetrated simultaneously, my conscousness wiped and handed back to me hours later, bright and newly born. In his basement apartment, my virginity and innocence were demolished forthwith, and gradually given back to me were the far more desired traits of grace and self-assurance.

Evgeny brought me to my limits of pain, dominance and humiliation, sweetening his punishments with praise and affection in perfectly measured volumes. Thus, through his hands, I was transformed. To this day I occasionally wonder if he was real, or rather an angel or devil of my imagination.

Under Evgeny, my new partner and I swept every competition in major cities around the USA. We qualified for and won Districts and then States, and were poised to win Nationals but came in second. We qualified for World's nonetheless, and doubled down our efforts.

That was two years after our training with the magical Evgeny began. Then, one week before our flight's departure to London for World's, Alexsander was riding his motorcycle on a sunny Tacoma afternoon when a truck pulled out in front of him. He wasn't wearing a helmet. He was dead at the scene.

My mother broke the news.

No London and no World's, needless to say. Competetive ballroom dancing went on without me. Evgeny's visa magically expired soon after. My sorcerer, coach and Dom returned to Russia; no forwarding address or telephone number provided. He never contacted me again. As his sub, it wasn't my place to seek him. I was probably just another in a long line of subs/students, and surely replaced in no time. Maybe he had a wife awaiting his return.

I look again at the TV screen and the VHS tape playing. It is now showing a video of Alexsander and I at Nationals in Las Vegas, 1982. We won, and there we are on stage at the MGM Grand Hotel, under auditorium spotlights, recieving our trophy. I remember that night well. I particularly remember being summoned to Evgeny's suite upstairs after the awards dinner.

I recall knocking on the door of room 1032.

The door swung silently open revealing nothing but blackness inside. I stepped into the darkness and let the door quietly shut behind me.

"Master? You requested me?" I say to the inky black silence.

Soundlessly, he's at my right shoulder. His gorgeous scent is first to give him away. I turned my head to the right and my lips barely connect with his, he was standing that close.

He kisses me passionately, his full, beautiful lips sliding over mine and tongue tasting me. I remember the butterflies in my belly and chest, fluttering madly in anticipation. In those days, with him, love was thorough and irrational.

He whispers hotly in the strong accent I've come to adore, "Remove your _cloths_."

My heart leaps.

In total darkness I obey, quickly unbuttoning and dropping blouse, skirt and underclothes in a heap somewhere off to my left, then stand attentively.

His lips are close to my ear, his rapid breathing tantalizing me, making my own pulse and breathing race. From behind, his left hand grasps my hip firmly. Flat to my skin, his hand glides around to my belly and slowly up. Up between my breasts, over my sternum, his hand strong and hot, up to my throat. His mouth is close behind my ear and his hot beathing is driving me mad. My eyes strain in the blackness to see something, anything.

But Evgeny liked me unable to see, often choosing to blindfold me, even during dance rehearsals. It piqued my senses and refined my motions.

His hand gradually glides up my chest, then grips my throat, then squeezes gently, just enough to induce fear and fully know my own helplessness but not enough to harm. I feel faint nonetheless, maybe from anticipation. Meanwhile his other hand has slowly ascended my ribs, taking my right breast to adoringly knead. Soon his strong fingers have my nipple, and twist.

"Tonight, precious one," he whispers, "you _pleased_ me. I give you reward."

"Yes my master," I breathe, my habitual response when he speaks.

"Thank me now."

I gasp, breathless. "Oh. Thank you, Master."

"Good girl."

And then came the silken blindfold, tied tight and carefully so as not to catch my hair.

To follow was the sound of a match striking, and soon there was the heady scent of iris and possibly sandalwood. _Oh_ _…_ _.he_ _'_ _s going to use hot wax._

I thought I would liquefy with excitement.

That night, in that room, with my super-crush dominant, I gave myself over to his mastery. I was rapturously violated, my consciousness whirling like my feet during the viennese waltz, lost to how many implements and acoutrements, how many orgasms, how many livid, searing stripes were lain across my body, how many times I begged and thanked him, and how many heated, drenched, hypnotic hours were spent in Evgeny's alternate universe. Yes, he used hot wax, dripped over my breasts while I teetered on the edge of climax. He took me again to that other place, his sexual kingdom of alternate reality.

Somewhere in that expertly crafted maelstrom of pleasure, there surely were two pairs of hands administering pleasure. Could he have simultaneously been lashing my skin and coaxing another orgasm? Did my body crest and explode in pulsating release around two penetrations? Or were there three? Was my mouth owned and then rewarded with the hot release of a second or possibly a third man? The agonized groans of male climax was a chorus, I was sure of it.

I swallowed and wore enough semen for there to have been many.

How did he do that? And exactly where was my consciousness during Evgeny's _reward_?

Here, alone in Carter Lincoln's estate years later, I still don't know the answers. They don't matter. All I know is that Evgeny ruined me for any other man. He alone is my ideal. Love, clearly, is pain.

What I wouldn't give to be there again, tentatively knocking on the door to room 1032 at the MGM Grand Hotel in Vegas, knowing Evgeny is within and awaiting me.

A firm knock at my bedroom door startles me.

"Elena!"

 _Oh shit. Please, not now._

At least he knocked before walking in. Linc enters, and I can tell he's been drinking. I remain silent. Maybe he'll just go away.

"Well?" he says expectantly.

Okay, let's get this over with. I shut off the VCR.

Soon I'm on my bed, on my back with my chemise pushed up to my neck, examining the ceiling tiles and thinking ' _maybe that stain in the corner means the roof is leaking. Hm. Must call a repairman._ _'_

Linc's almost finished. Yep… _fiive, four, three, two, one, done_ …. _now get the fuck out of my room._

Linc gets up, a smug smile on his craggy face, and he's out the door without so much as a 'thanks' or a kiss.

Afterward I shower leisurely and rinse away his evidence, then dress in lounging pajamas and return to my sofa.

I look at my phone. Thirty minutes ago there was a text from Christian. Excitement leaps!

Christian: You there?

Me: I'm here.

Christian: About time you answered.

I laugh.

Me: What are you doing?

Christian: Lounging on your patio.

 _What? What the fuck?! No. No way._

I dash to a window where there's a partial view over the pool area patio with its table, chairs and chaise lounge. I can just see a pair of long legs in jeans laying askew over the chaise.

 _Oh my god, oh my god, what_ _'_ _s he doing here? Shit!_

I throw on a bathrobe and open my bedroom door ever so silently. Using my dance skills to pad silently across the hallway floor and down the back stairs, I arrive downstairs and peer around a corner. Lamplight glows softly at the end of the hall. Linc's study door is open.

 _Shit! Okay, hurry._

I make my way soundlessly across the darkened kitchen to the back door, glancing at the digital clock glowing brightly above the stove. 11:07pm. I gently open the back door.

 _Holy shit, how would I explain this?_

It's a very chilly but clear night. Quickly I make my way in bare feet across the cold pavers toward the chaise lounge. Christian is laying on his back, haphazardly sprawled across the chaise. His t-shirt and jeans are dirty and wet, his feet bare. Muddy running shoes have been tossed aside. A sodden sweater is discarded by his shoes. He appears to be asleep, his hand and phone resting on his chest.

"Chistian!" I whisper and shake his arm. His skin is cold and wet. "Hey! Wake up."

He reeks of alcohol and his eyes remain closed.

"El," he breathes.

"Hey. What happened to you? Why are you here? You're wet and dirty."

His eyes flutter open, unfocused, and he slurs 80 proof at me, "I was in Medina Park. Drinking with some guys. I wanted to see you. So I walked here. I fell in the creek."

"Oh my god. Shit. What were you drinking?"

His eyes shut. "Jack."

I look around wildly at the windows and back door hoping Linc isn't standing there watching this.


	6. Chapter 6

6\. Prelude

I need to get Christian inside, out of the chilly night air and out of his sopping wet clothes.

"Christian! Wake up. You need to help me. I can't carry you. Stand up."

"Fuuuuck, El. I'm so fucked up."

"Yeah I can see that, baby. Come on, put your arms around me."

I grab his phone, wet shoes and sweater, then with his arms around me I pull him to standing. He's a 135 pound ragdoll. Ugh, and he smells like stagnant marsh water and bourbon.

"Come on, Christian. I need you to wake up. We have to get you up to my room."

We get to the back door, through it, across the kitchen, and with my arms supporting his body, up the stairs without both of us toppling down. There's no sound from the study downstairs. I get Christian to my bedroom suite.

"I'm gonna puke," he says loud and clear as we get through the door.

I fairly drag him straight away into the bathroom and set him on his knees in front of the toilet just in time, then stand in the doorway watching him heave, shaking my head.

With the bathroom door wide open, I return to the doorway where I dropped his phone. With the bedroom door shut and locked, I take his phone and search through his contacts.

Elliott Grey. Yes, big brother, where are you when Christian is falling down drunk in a park? _Fuck._

*call*

It rings twice.

Elliott answers, "Yeah bro."

"It's not your bro. It's Elena Lincoln."

Silence….then, "Mrs. Lincoln? My mother's friend?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Um, hello. Why do you have my brother's phone?"

"Well, Elliott, because Christian showed up on my pool deck a few minutes ago, drunk out of his mind and wet after having fallen in a creek. He was in Medina Park down the road. Do you know anything about that?"

"Oh _shit_ ," Elliott gasps. "Oops sorry, Mrs. Lincoln. Um…he asked me to drop him off at the park to meet some friends. I thought this was him calling to be picked up. Is…is he okay?"

I settle on the loveseat, my eyes still on Christian. "He's vomiting profusely in my bathroom at the moment, but he'll be okay."

"Oh my god. I need to come get him."

"No. Look, leave him with me tonight. I'll take care of him and get him cleaned up. I'll call you in the morning."

Elliott's voice is shaky. "Yeah. Okay. Shit. My parents are gonna freak. They're already livid with him. Okay, I'll cover for him. Yeah, once they leave for work in the morning I'll come get him."

"All right, Elliott. Sounds good."

"Thanks, Mrs. Lincoln. I'm really sorry about the inconvenience."

"Yeah, well maybe you can return the favor someday."

"If I can, I will, Mrs. Lincoln."

"Good night, Elliott."

Meanwhile I'm watching Christian in the bathroom. He stopped vomiting and flushed the toilet. He looks at me, then lies down on the white tile floor, curling into a ball with his face pressed against the porcelain base of the toilet, groaning. Yep, its a walk of shame I've taken myself, more than once.

I go and brush his auburn hair off his sweaty forehead.

"Hey, sleepy beauty. Let's get you out of these wet clothes."

"No. El. Let me die."

I laugh. "No, baby, you need to get up and have a quick shower. You're ice cold and you smell horrendous. Come on, I'll help you."

I turn on the shower so its comfortably hot, help Christian to stand, then peel off his t-shirt. I pause, looking him over and giving him opportunity to protest. His head is tipped back against the wall, his mouth dropped open and eyes shut.

That's when I notice his chest. _What the fuck?_

Scars. Multiple small, round scars, maybe a half centimeter in diameter, smooth and silver white dotted about his hairless chest. They're not new. These happened many years ago. I look long and hard at them.

They're burns. What else can they be but cigarette burns?

I look up at his face. His eyes remain shut and I think he's fallen asleep leaning against the wall. Christian's face is unmarred except for some healing acne. His face is beautiful; high cheekbones, perfectly shaped full lips, straight nose, clefted chin, strong forehead softened by gently arched brows and sweaty wisps of thick hair. Every feature is the picture of sweet male symmetry.

I look again at his chest. Is this why he can't tolerate being touched? Are these scars the reason he won't participate in swimming or diving at school, because people will ask questions? Is he traumatized by memories of being burned deliberately?

Yes, I imagine he is.

Is this why he gets into fights at school? Because people touch and provoke him, getting an immediate reaction every time?

Holding him propped against the wall, I decide to find out for myself. His eyes remain closed. With gentle fingertips raised to his chest, I very gingerly make contact with a scar over his heart.

His eyes pop open. "Stop it! What the fuck? Don't do that!" His eyes are wild and angry.

"Shhh…Christian, it's okay. I'm just undressing you. You need to shower and get into bed. I'm helping you."

"Don't…don't touch me," he slurs and turns away toward the wall.

Now I can see his back. Oh God. There's more scars over his back.

I want to cry and my eyes start filling with tears.

 _Poor baby. Let me take care of you._

With his face pressed to the tile wall he starts sliding downward.

"Oh no you don't," I scold. "Stand up. Let's get these wet jeans off."

With much effort, his jeans are pulled off inside-out while he holds onto a towel bar. His boxer briefs are all that remain.

"Well, baby, this isn't quite how I imagined it, but here they go…" and I pull his boxers down and off, adding them to the heap of nasty, wet clothes.

I take his arm around my shoulders and walk him into the stand-alone shower. The water revives him immediately and his eyes open.

Best to act like this is the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh my god," he mumbles. "Holy fuck."

"Christian there's bodywash and shampoo over there. Do you think you can shower yourself?"

His eyes are half open, but he looks at me clearly enough. And with a lopsided smile.

"You wanna wash me? Huh, El?"

I look down at my now-dirty bathrobe and lounging pajamas.

"The thought occurred to me," I tell him.

I drop the bathrobe onto the pile of clothes destined for the washer downstairs.

He staggers backward against the shower wall, water cascading down his naked body, assessing my breasts and peaked nipples through the clingy material of my lounging pajamas.

"Fuck, El, if I could get a woody right now, it would be a diamond cutter," he slurs and turns toward the wall placing palms flat on the tiles. "Too drunk."

What a sweet ass he has. I can't resist the temptation and reach into the shower stall. I carress a firm, bare ass cheek.

"Christian, you're not washing. You need to get clean."

"Fuck, everything's spinning."

 _Well, only one thing to do I suppose._ I strip off the pajamas, top and bottom, and step into the shower with him. With my loofah soaped (white lily and rosebud bodywash was all I had) I begin by washing his hands and arms. He half turns from the wall. His bleary, unfocused eyes are on my naked breasts.

"Damn," he breathes, staring.

"The soap isn't a masculine scent I'm afraid, Christian, but you're not going on a date."

I look down. He's got a respectable 'semi'. In all his glory he must be impressive.

"Yeah?" he says. "Where am I going?"

As I wash him I just can't resist playing with him. "You're going to my bed, Christian."

He laughs. "I fucking hate you, El. You have to do this _now_?"

"Now baby," I say and drop to my knees to wash him from thighs to feet, "later, whenever. If you're good."

He's looking down on me as I kneel before him. "I'll be whatever you want me to be," he slurs.

I stand. "Turn around."

He turns. "I'm going to wash your back, Christian."

"No!" He's shaking his head and posture is stiffening.

Right. Time to get this situation under control. Firmly.

I swat his ass hard with my right hand, and the sound is a delicious wet *smack!* With my left hand, fingers knot into the wet hair at the back of his head. Breasts pressed to his back, my pelvis pressed to his ass. My lips and teeth are at the back of his neck.

"You like this, Christian? You like my naked body against you?"

His response is a shuddering, "Y..Yeah."

"You want me on my knees in front of you?" And my soapy right hand drops to assess his semi as the left keeps firm control of his head. G _ood boy_. Better. We'll try again. "You want me to teach you how to please a woman?"

His cheek is pressed to the tiles as I bite the back of his neck. "Oh…yes…yes, El. You're so fucking hot."

"Good, baby. Because I can't wait to have you in every single way. You will be mine. Completely mine." And with my palm against his low back, I run my hand down toward his ass, my slick middle finger delving deep into the crevice between his cheeks.

"Yeah…El. Oh my god."

"That's right. Give it."

I swat his ass again, hard, and rub my tits against his back. "When we're like this, baby, you will call me ma'am. And only ma'am. Understand?"

My soapy hands wander wherever they wish, and his body responds as well as it can in his impaired state. _Impressive_ turns out to be accurate.

"Yes. Yes, ma'am. Please…"

Simultaneously I run a hand up his abdomen to his chest while again exploring his ass crack. He flinches as my soapy hand glides up over his ribs and higher, and I play with his ass. Meanwhile I keep firm control of his neck with my teeth. My breasts are pressed to his back, and I pinch and play with a nipple, rewarding and punishing his tolerance of my touch.

"You are mine, Christian. You will accept my touch anywhere I wish to give it, for however long I wish to give it, with whatever part of me or whatever instrument I choose. If you're good, I'll reward you. If you disappoint me….first, I'll punish you. But don't think of disappointing me twice, because then I'll go away. And we won't play anymore."

"No, I want to play."

"Do you?"

He's breathless. "Yeah. I want to play. With you. Ma'am. Please."

I devise my attack plan for Christian's aversion to touch. His no-go areas seem to be restricted to the regions of his scars; back and chest. Immersion therapy accompanied by pleasure is the way to conquer him. I may have to bring in a female accomplice; one who will happily delight him with hands and mouth while I gain trust of his back and chest. Yes, I'll blindfold him and whip him into a begging sexual frenzy. Very MGM Grand Hotel. Very Evgeny.

Under my control, Christian will let me do anything. And I will. I will habituate him to the pleasure of total servitude.

I shut off the water. He stands in my shower; naked, wet, somnolent. I love his complete dependence upon my mercy. Upon my beneficence. I could do anything with him.

I choose to dry him with a soft, pristine white towel. With eyelids barely open, he watches me.

He says, "I never let anyone touch me."

I dry water droplets down the center of his chest.

"But you'll let me touch you. Because if you're good, you know I'll reward you." I drop to my knees to dry him below the waist.

He twitches, gradually and impressively coming fully to life. "Ma'am. Please. I'll be good."

And as I dry his thighs and down over his calves, my decision is made. My cheeks and lips lead the way.

"Please," he sobs as I tease.

And I reward him.

 _Yes._

Christian is mine now. I know he will do anything and be anything I ask of him. I'll take him to and through that dark landscape of subspace where, bound and blindfolded and whipped, he will worship me and beg me for more and confess to me his most private sins. He will shed his skin of angry aggression. He will emerge new and gloriously poised… in complete control of his body and his feelings.

Grasping his hips tightly, I'm relentless in my bent to own him. And despite his inhebriated state, he finishes magnificently, sober enough to contain his strangled cries.

I stand. And kiss him deeply. Every man should taste himself on a woman.

That's enough for now. My Christian needs rest.

We'll see how much of this he remembers tomorrow. As for now, I lead him to bed and pull back the covers.

I'd like to go get him some water but don't want to run into Linc downstairs.

"I'll be right back with some water. Don't fall asleep."

Christian is in my bed. He looks up at me with bleary eyes.

"Okay."

I grab my backup bathrobe and I'm off down the hall, repeating my silent trek to the kitchen at top speed. Then with a tall glass of ice water in hand, I head back up the stairs. Linc's voice from behind startles me.

"Going to bed?" he rhetorically asks.

"Yes. Just getting some water. Good night, Carty."

And I descend the last few steps to stand face to face with my husband so to give him a lingering, wet kiss.

"Good night, Elena. Mmm. Salty," he says with an intrigued grin.

"Yes. Just a yummy night-time snack."

And before he can advance, I turn and ascend to my suite where I lock the door. I'll wait an hour or two before going down there again to do Christian's laundry and mine.

Christian remains where I left him, in my bed, with his eyes closed.

"Baby, here. Drink," I tell him. "All of this."

It takes a few minutes but he gets it all down. Meanwhile I'm listening for Linc's footsteps and cough. That kiss was not an invitation to return for seconds. I still hear him, but distantly.

Christian's hand seeks mine.

"El. Thank you. You're my best friend," he sleepily mumbles, kisses my hand and closes his eyes.

"And you're mine, baby." I kiss his lovely cheek and pull the covers up over his shoulders.

I bring a comfortable armchair to the bedside and shut off the lamp. Watching Christian sleep tonight will be a pleasure not to be missed. I gently sweep his auburn hair off his forehead.

We have so far to go together, and the journey will be all anticipation and planning. With carefully constructed ascension from the troubled boy he is now, I will use my learned skills to transform him into a man; one who is something beyond spectacular.

Thank you, Evgeny, for teaching me how it's done. Where-ever you are, Master.

Thank you for abandoning me and dessimating my heart. For if you hadn't, I wouldn't be the Elena Lincoln that I am. And young Christian Grey would not now be the fortunate recipient of an alternative means of intimacy. He _needs_ what I have to teach him. The butterfly from its chrysallis.

"Baby," I whisper to the sleeping Christian, "I can't wait to get started."


	7. Chapter 7

7\. Acceptance

I'm awakened by the roar of Linc's engine. Its morning, and I've spent the night sleeping in a chair at my bedside. Without opening my eyes, I'm aware and know I'll ache today.

It must be about 8am. Linc is nothing if not predictable. He leaves for work every morning at the same time.

Much of my night was spent doing laundry and stealthily avoiding detection of the fact that my bed is occupied by a naked and inhebriated fourteen year old boy.

I warily open my eyes to bright morning light and look toward the bed. My heart jolts.

Grey eyes are open and looking directly at me.

He so still, so expressionless. But then he blinks.

I smile gently. "Good morning, Christian."

He's on his side, bare shoulders and upper chest exposed. "Good morning," he says.

"How are you feeling?"

He considers, his eyes roaming away from my face. "Bewildered. Yes, that about sums it up."

"I'll go get you some orange juice. Stay there."

I go downstairs to the deserted kitchen, put on the tea kettle and pour a glass of OJ. Good, no interrogating or snyde notes left of the countertop. Nothing to cause alarm that the secrets of last night have been discovered. Just another Monday morning.

I take my time to make my tea, letting it steep while I tidy myself in the half bath off the kitchen. I then carry the two drinks upstairs.

Christian is sitting up in bed, the duvet pulled to his waist. His scars are plainly seen in morning light, and I don't ask, nor does he offer. His phone is beside him. I hand him the glass of orange juice.

I throw off my backup bathrobe, revealing a short chemise held aloft with thin spaghetti straps. He sips. His observant eyes appraise my body through the paisley satin. Sunlight filters through the sheer white drapes.

He pats the bedside and obediently I approach and sit, sipping my tea.

He speaks first. "Do you want to tell me why I'm naked and in your bed?"

"I like you naked and in my bed."

Christian nods once in agreement. "Granted. Me too. But how about you tell me how I got here. And more importantly, who knows that I'm here?"

I don't want to tell him everything. I broke my age restriction rule last night, and I'm not pleased about it. Well, I _am_ pleased, and I certainly wouldn't undo it, but it's probably best that I keep that information to myself. Maybe he doesn't remember.

"You met some friends in Medina Park. Elliott dropped you off."

"Yeah, I remember that. I remember the bottle of Jack Daniels'. I remember girls. This one…she was all over me. I got up and started walking. They were calling after me. Then I remember falling and being wet. Wanting…no, _needing_ …to find you. I think I knew how to get to your house. I guess I found it."

I smiled. "Yes, you found it all right. You're lucky you didn't lose your phone in the creek."

"I wasn't going to let that happen. I needed to call you."

"Christian, has this happened to you before? Have you drank a lot, then blacked out before?"

"A few times."

"Why did you drink last night?"

"I drink every weekend."

"But that much? I mean, you could have drowned. You could have gotten lost. It was cold, you could have died of hypothermia."

"No I couldn't. That creek is shallow. It's mostly rocks. And I had a sweater," he says, looking around for his clothes.

"Your clothes are over there," I say, pointing to the clean pile on my dresser. "Your sweater was sopping wet."

"Wow. You did my laundry? Thanks, El."

"So how much do you remember from last night, Christian?"

He smirks and cocks an eyebrow. "Why? Did you take advantage of me?"

"I undressed you. I put you in the shower."

He settles down in my bed, arms folded behind his head. "I have still images. I don't know if they're real or not. Sometimes I dream shit when I'm really drunk and wake up the next day not knowing if they happened."

"What sort of still images?"

He smiles. "You've got amazing tits, El."

"You only think that because I'm next to you wearing a tiny satin chemise."

He nods. "Maybe. And maybe it wasn't just a dream that I came like a fucking freight train. With your hands grasping my hips like an iron vice."

I smile. He's so beautiful. "Or maybe it was a dream."

He smiles too. "Hm. The world may never know."

"Now back to my question. Why did you drink so much? I think you had more than your usual."

He considers. "Remember yesterday when we got back to my house and my father was looking for me?"

"Yes."

He shrugs resignedly and pulls a deep breath. "They're sending me to France. To my aunt's house in Lyon."

I cast my eyes down in attempt to hide my shock and sadness. I couldn't speak.

"They're exiling me because of my bad behavior. I figured the damage is already done. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? So last night I went all out."

"France," I whisper. He may as well have said Jupiter. "For how long?"

"They're going to look into schools there. It's one of a few options on the table," he says, softening the blow. "Do Grace and Carrick know I'm here?"

"No. Only Elliott knows. I used your phone to call him last night."

And as if right on cue, Christian's phone rings. He looks at the caller ID and answers.

"Elliott, hey…no I'm fine…just woke up…no, she's not mad," he says, looking at me, "okay, nine o'clock…"

Meanwhile I'm watching his expressions and beautiful face as he talks with Elliott.

They always leave me. They get on a plane and fly to the other side of the planet and disappear. Whenever I _feel_ for one of them, its bound to happen.

The debate would become a war within me. Do I maintain my age restriction rule (which yes, I've already broken once, but Christian doesn't seem to remember so what does it matter?) or do I dive right in and begin his training immediately?

I may never see him again. Or it may be years before we cross paths. Or when we do cross paths, he may have a wife. He may be in love with a beautiful and deserving young lady.

He and Elliott are wrapping it up.

"…yeah…thanks for covering…I'll see you shortly. Bye." He closes the phone, puts it down and looks at me.

"Are you okay?" he asks me.

Hell, I'm strong. If nothing else I've got strength. "Yes, I'm fine."

He's not convinced and looks at me warily. "Are we here alone?"

"Yes. Linc left for the office at eight." I add, "He doesn't know you're here."

Christian nods solemnly. "El," he says and holds a hand out to me, "come here."

The difference in our chronologic ages is like nothing, and again I feel like we're the same. In many ways we _are_ the same. We are both starved for human touch, lonely and ameliorating that pain with an array of distractions, scarred by our past and keeping out the darkness of our futures.

I crawl into his arms and we hold one another tightly in the bright morning light.

"Don't worry for me," he says into my hair. "I've been expecting this."

I look up at his lovely gray eyes.

"Just come back to me, Christian. You and I have a lot of history to create together. And once we have, it won't be me that leaves you. I'm your forever friend; for as long as you'll have me."

He's quiet, holding me tightly for a while longer.

Then he's up, sliding out of bed to get dressed. I'm pleased and impressed that he shows no shyness with being unclothed in front of me. Somehow I crossed a common social barrier and entered into a rare realm of trust with Christian. I think of how highly unusual this is for an adolescent. Most can't even stand to look at themselves.

This adds fuel to my certainty of Christian being an old soul. He can't be bothered with all of that insecurity crap of the common teenager. He's done it all before. _Yawn_.

I watch him as he dresses, facing me.

The way he pulls up his jeans, zips and buttons them, watching me and wearing the slightest shade of a smile. The way he puts both arms through his t-shirt sleeves, then pulls it over his head, shaking out his hair. I smile as he does the same with his sweatshirt.

He's unreasonably beautiful. Does he have any idea?

Yes, actually, I believe he does.

Outside a car horn blares twice.  
"Gotta go," he says and presses his lips together before asking, "where are my running shoes?"

"Over there, under the window. They were very wet last night."

"Okay." He grabs his shoes and phone before coming back to the bed where he leans down and places a kiss on my cheek, close to my mouth. "That was amazing," he says.

Now I'm not sure if he remembers fully. Best to just let it go. "I thought so too," I reply.

"I'll come by the shop later. Four o'clock?"

"Sounds perfect."

And off he goes, quietly out the bedroom door, through the house and out to Elliott.

So that began my weekend of initiating Christian. Aside from everything that could have gone wrong Sunday night for Christian during his blacked-out drunken wanderings, I thought it all went exceedingly well. We have solidified a tight friendship, and how often can any of us say we accomplished that?

That morning I phone Linc's very efficient young secretary of the past one year (a replacement after his ancient original who finally retired) and inform her that His Highness had given the thumb's up to my request for an Apple iMac.

"Ooh! Yes ma'am," she squeals. "An iMac G3? What color?"

"Um…excuse me? Color?"

She giggles in her tiny little voice. "They come in blue, pink, green, orange and purple!"

 _You_ _'_ _re fucking kidding me._ "I don't know, Shelly, how about blue?"

"I will order it right way for you, Mrs. Lincoln," she enthuses. "Is there anything else I can do for you today?"

 _Yes. You can take over the role of inflatable fuckdoll for my husband. That_ _'_ _d be great._

"No, Shelly, thank you. You've been superb, as always."

"Alrighty then! Good bye, Mrs. Lincoln!"

How that young lady could remain so bubbly in Linc's near proximity I have no idea. He quite literally drains the life out of me.

With that chore behind me, I dress, breakfast and get myself downtown to Chic Salvage. I'm late, but Anthony had already opened the store and is busy completing the sale of an enormous stained glass window, salvaged from a condemned church located where Walmart now stands.

The happy customers agree to arrange delivery for themselves as Tony dazzles them with his Welsh accent and endearing charm. Once they are gone, he hands me their considerable check, pleased with my wide-eyed reaction.

"I marked it up three hundred percent from your estimate. They have a multi mil mansion on West Mercer Island. He's a neurosurgeon," Tony informs me.

I gasp in admiration for my plaything assistant. "Well done, Mr. Sharpe," I say and squeeze his luscious ass. "Perhaps a … _bonus_ is in order."

"Well then, Mrs. Lincoln, I believe it is you who need's seeing to. Have you slept last night? You look as if it was a rough one."

"Nothing to be concerned about, Tony. Just worrying a bit. Linc wanted to go over the books for Chic Salvage last night, and he of course has his criticisms. One victory for me was a computer, so we can keep the books better organized here."

"A computer," Anthony scoffs. "Fuck, I wouldn't know how to turn the damn thing on."

"We'll have help with that," I assure him.

"You mean that Chinese business student who hangs around here and points out what we're doing wrong at every opportunity? Or at least I _think_ that's what she's on about. I can't understand a damn thing she says."

"No, I have another ace up my sleeve. You'll meet him this afternoon."

"Him?" Tony asks suspiciously.

I pet his tattooed bicep. "Christian. He's a high school student. American as apple pie. A technological whiz-kid. We will benefit from his help. And he'll help us both around here with lifting, carrying, deliveries…"

"Right," Tony says and strokes my cheek. "Bring him. We could use some help."

The rest of the day proceeds as expected. Sales are moderate and we manage as we typically do. Dimitri Sr. and Jr. have completed two major projects in the form of gorgeous crystal chandeliers, rewired and prepared for installation, but Tony needs help delivering them to their Madrona buyer's mansion.

At four, Christian arrives, punctually I might add. He's dressed smartly and ready to make the best impression. I introduce him to Anthony and they shake hands, two males sizing one another up, particularly so in the presence of an attractive female. As the owner of the business, I set the tone of rank and order, informing them of the task at hand; namely delivering the chandeliers.

Anthony wanders off to enlist the help of Dimitri and son.

Christian stays behind. He grasps my wrist, his amused gray gaze delving deep into my eyes.

"You're fucking that Brit cocksucker," he deduces, entirely assured in his assessment.

"He's Welsh."

"Whatever."

I consider that. Christian shouldn't think its a romantic connection because, of course, its not.

"Tony is my current…," I search for the correct word.

"Fuck buddy?" His eyes are wide and brow pinched.

My patience is thin when it comes to interrogation. "Playmate."

Christian looks at me incisively, his lips deliciously parted and eyes intense. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means, Christian, _role playing_. At your age, can you understand sexual role playing?" I whisper, expecting Tony to return at any moment.

"Don't patronize me like a fucking child, El. Role playing? What, like he wears a cardigan and plays teacher while you put on a plaid skirt and play the naughty student?"

I've never wanted to spank a sub so overwhelmingly. "No, Christian! Not like that. I'm going to show you. Someday."

"Well that may be too fucking late. In a few weeks I leave for France. Carrick told me today."

 _No. Oh no. No no._

I feel like all of the air has been sucked out of the room _._ I'm stunned.

Tony's back. "Right then. Ready?" he asks Christian. "We have a long drive out to Madrona."

Christian casts me a final baleful glance and follows Tony to the workshop and loading dock behind.

Customers are roaming the store. I need to make myself known and offer assistance as needed.

 _My fault_. My damned fault for allowing myself to get attached! I don't always become attached. Sometimes I could give a crap about them.

There was no hope with Christian.

I've been attached since the New Year's Eve party at the Grey's mansion. Since I danced with him. Since I kissed him. Christian has been under my skin, like a slow burn he's been there. There hasn't been a day since then that my thoughts haven't veered toward him and since I haven't hoped to see him or hear about him.

And now he's leaving the country indefinitely. His parents can visit him in France, but there's no way I could. I'd have to justify to Linc why I need to travel abroad, why I need money for an airline ticket. Linc will ask how I plan to oversee the store while I'm away. He will never believe any story I come up with.

I have to build a barrier against this feeling I have for Christian.

Again, it's not a choice. It's involuntary.

And I need to get it under control.

I once knew something about control.

 _Evgeny_ _…_ _help me_.


	8. Chapter 8

8\. Dilemma

That night, after the shop is left quiet and tidied, I set the alarm and lock up. On the drive home, the windows are down, letting the chill night air lift my hair and cool my fevered thoughts. I can hear Christian's hissed _You_ _'_ _re fucking that Brit cocksucker_ … his beautiful face rife with jealousy and gray eyes flashing dangerously.

Damn, he is amazing at reading people. It's like he can read minds. Certainly mine is an open book for him.

The radio is tuned to a local pop station and I find myself singing along. Now it's "Sex and Candy" by Marcy Playground. I'm thinking it must be Christian's theme song.

 _Who_ _'_ _s that castin_ _'_ _devious stares in my direction_ …

That would be me, baby.

It's been hours since he and Tony took off to deliver the chandeliers to West Mercer Island, a super posh neighborhood known for its multi million dollar mansions. Tony would be awestruck but trying to downplay any reaction, with difficulty.

Christian? Probably not terribly impressed. Affluence is his normal.

Anthony, however, grew up in a council flat in Cardiff, Wales. At 18 years of age, his father handed him a twenty pound note and told him to go find his own way in the world. Tony's 'own way' led him to London where he lived homeless for a while, showering at the YMCA and dining on tins of baked beans cooked over an open fire in St. James' Park.

Eventually he and a mate discovered in a Soho free publication the address of a pen-friend service connecting U.K. men with ladies in America. One girl took a particular shine to him (or rather to his good looks); a girl from Oklahoma. Her father was a cattle rancher and offered Tony a job as a farm hand. They paid his passage, and that's how he made his way to the States.

The Oklahoma girlie eventually pushed for marriage, but Tony declined. She found herself a new beau, leaving Tony again without home or income. So he made his way to L.A. where he modeled, worked as a nightclub bouncer and also enjoyed sporadic success in the porn industry, starring with major names of the mid-nineties such as Tera Patrick and Asia Carrera.

After a series of temporary lovers, he hooked up one night with a pretty University of California Irvine student who upon graduation was bound for a Master's program in the Seattle area. Afraid to make the move alone, she impulsively asked her attractive Welsh man-of-the-moment to come along. He, having no other plans on the morrow, accepted.

Anthony is about as good at being a kept man as I am at being a trophy wife. We suck at it, but we look good doing it.

I found him when a gay couple's failing salvage business was approaching bankruptcy, and their circle just happened to include a hot, studly young Welshman. I offered him a job to stay on and bring the business out of the rubble and into fabulosity. Tony claims to be straight as an arrow, but the boy sure has style, and better yet, he has lots of friends with style; ones who are glad to lend their talents.

Style aside, he has the endurance of a thoroughbred and a lust for kink that verges on religious zealotry. He's a born sub; craving to receive punishment and to succumb to violation, the more creative the better, and if his scenes involve other subs…all watched by numbers of dominant voyeurs…all having a crack at him…Tony is truly in his element.

I'm just there to keep him in practice, and we give one another a reliable outlet. It's affectionate abuse that I inflict upon Tony in the upstairs office/bedroom at the warehouse. He cries, worships and grovels in my presence, and the outpouring of adoration is mightily cathartic for us both. Beating him only enhances his torrent, and I lose myself in the fantasy of a man's adoration.

He _needs_ what we share. We both do. He certainly looks the following day like he's had a relaxing weekend at a spa, and I'll bet I do too. It's an essential part of my beauty regimen.

Damn, if his girlfriend only knew. But she won't. She's too besotted with his looks and charm (and blinded by her self-obsession) to ever see what's so plain.

I wonder what would become of Anthony if he were to leave my employ.

San Francisco's live sex shows. Yeah, he would make a very good living at that. The hours are good, and it's work he likes. Hopefully he won't discover that option because his salary at Chic Salvage is a pittance in comparison. Cutting his salary, per Linc's decree, would hasten his search for a greener pasture. Or his gay friends may tell him where to look for one.

I enter the drive of the Lincoln estate, kill the headlights and slow to a stop some distance from the house, keeping the volume turned up while I sing. The music now is Oasis with "Don't Look Back in Anger" and I can clearly see that baleful look Christian cast back at me as he followed Tony through the workshop to the loading dock.

 _Take that look from off your face, you ain_ _'_ _t ever gonna burn my heart out_ ….

Yeah well, too fucking late. He already has.

But I won't tell him. I'll just enjoy Christian for as long as he'll stay around.

My Nokia's screen lights up as the phone lies on the passenger seat.

Tony: We're back. Dropped the kid at home. Job well done.

Me: OK great. The customers are happy?

Tony: Yes. They love the chands. No problems. Headed home. 'night.

Me: See you tomorrow.

Music goes to commercial and I shut the radio off, then creep the Lexus slowly along the illuminated drive to the house and my garage bay. Hopefully I can sneak in and upstairs without Linc hearing me. Its been a long day and I'm feeling soul-weary.

Christian is leaving for France soon. And indefinitely.

He's angry and jealous about Tony.

 _Oh baby, you have nothing to be jealous about. My preference is you._

I'm in the house and decide a cup of tea would help ease my attack of _weltschmerz_ (a great German word that literally means "world pain" which right now is a most befitting phrase for my deary emotions.) Quietly I construct a perfect cuppa and pad stealithy down the hallway and up the stairs, noting lamplight burning in Linc's study.

 _He got some only last night; he should leave me in peace for two weeks at least._

I make it to my suite and open the door.

"Elena!" I hear from the bottom of the stairs.

I sigh with exasperation, but very quietly.

"Just getting home, dear."

He's up the stairs directly and takes the cup out of my hands, spilling tea into the saucer.

"Been waiting for you," Linc huffs and goes into my room where he noisily deposits my teacup on the dresser.

I turn the light on. I shouldn't have. He's undoing his trousers.

"Linc, please, it's been a hell of a day."

"You don't have to do anything. Just take everything down," he says, waving at my body below the waist.

 _This is my sentence. This is what I signed up for_ _…_

Shoes and panty hose are off. I can't look at him stroking himself.

 _I live in this lovely house and drive that fantastic car_ _…_

He spins me away from him and pushes me face-first onto my bed. Thank heavens, he's just going to rub against me. I can live with that.

My panties are roughly pulled down to my knees. His hands pull my skirt up to my back, then tremendous weight pins me to the bed. I can scarcely pull a breath.

As much as I can lift my head, I'm looking around for Kleenex, a stray item of clothing, anything. This will be quick and revoltingly messy. He settles his groin against my ass cheeks and humps hard and fast.

I feel like my spine is going to break. In no time he's making his characteristic orgasm sounds.

For a time he rests his full weight on my body in satisfied exhaustion.

I can't breathe…

Then Linc's up, using my bathroom with the door closed. Washing himself, no doubt using my washcloths and towel. While I wait, feeling sticky and wet, I wonder at his recent boost in libido. The answer is obvious: a sprightly little twenty-something secretary daily doing his bidding with both enthusiasm and a smile. And while wearing a short skirt. All of that adds up to a randy old boss.

He walks past me on his way to the bedroom door.

"Shelly ordered your computer," he disinterestedly says.

 _Yep, Shelly._ She's close to his thoughts.

"Isn't she a treasure. Good. Thanks."

And he's gone, never bringing me tissues or a towel, and not offering another word or a motion of affection.

I need to set a deadline for being done with this non-marriage. Even if its years from now. Something to work towards and look forward to. If I remain blameless, with no proof of my extra-cirriculars, then I'm entitled to half of Linc's fortune. It would be more if we had a child together. The Spawn of Hell would likely fight to keep every penny I got.

Linc knew what he was doing when we married. When he proposed twelve years ago, over dinner at his golfing club that fateful night, he added an absolute prerequisite: that I be sterilized first. A tubal ligation by the gynecologist of his choosing or no deal. I was 22.

Agnessa had a conniption with that one, privately of course. She and Maxim already had grandchildren by my much older siblings, but they knew the loss, both personally and financially, it would mean for me, particularly should Linc and I divorce. And they knew I would be alone once Linc, thirty-two years my senior, died.

"You wait," Agnessa counseled. "Wait til dat cheap old bastard is dead. Then you begin to live. Eh, so you adopt baby someday. You be fine."

I didn't know if I could wait that long. My fantasies of Linc's death were ever-present. Car accident, plane crash, heart attack, stroke, cancer, disgruntled employee. My imagination could come up with a thousand ways, particularly in the hour that followed his dreadful excuses for marital sex. I now understood why my peer housewives were all so enamored with wine.

Christian is alcohol abuser enough for both of us, but surely together we can construct a more gratifying outlet to quell our demons.

I shower quickly. Afterward, my tea is still reasonably warm, so I take it and my phone to the sofa and turn on the TV. The medical drama Chicago Hope is on, and all the depicted chaos makes my thoughts wander to Christian's safety. I'll just check that he did in fact arrive home.

I text him.

Me: You OK?

Long pause, then…

Christian: Yes

Me: Any trouble with the Madrona delivery?

Another long pause, then…

Christian: No

Alright, his rancorous vibe is coming through loud and clear. Maybe _this_ will appeal to him.

Me: An Apple iMac G3 was ordered. Blue.

A pause, not quite so long.

Christian: OK. Get Intuit's QuickBooks for mac too.

 _Ugh. What the hell is that? He_ _'_ _s speaking alien again._

Me: Why?

 _I could almost see him rolling his eyes._

Christian: It's for small business accounting. Leave that to me. Just get it.

Me: OK. Are you mad at me?

Pause.

Christian: Go fuck your Welshman, El.

I sigh and read that line over and over. Yes, he's angry.

Me: I miss you.

Nothing.

Me: Good night.

Not another message from Christian comes through. I don't even know if he's coming to work tomorrow. After a while I shut off the TV and go to bed.

The Tuesday workday comes and goes. I phone Shelly and ask her to add QuickBooks to my iMac request and she chirps an affirmative.

No Christian appears in the afternoon. Worried, I wait until the likely close of Dr. Grace Trevelyan-Grey's office hours, then phone her. She answers on the first ring.

"Grace! Elena Lincoln here," I warmly begin.

"Elena, my dear! So glad to hear your voice," my friend gushes. "You called at a perfect time. I'm just wrapping up chart dictations and about to head home."

"Oh good, Grace. Well then, I don't want to keep you. I'm just wondering about Christian. He worked yesterday evening and was a tremendous help. But he hasn't yet shown up at the shop today, and he didn't call. Is he alright?"

"Yes. I just spoke with him not half an hour ago. He has a piano lesson every Tuesday afternoon. Didn't he tell you?"

"Oh," I say, rather surprised by his omission. "No, I didn't know. OK, I was a little concerned is all."

"Feel free to text or call him after seven, Elena. He always has his phone. It's so good of you to be concerned and check on him."

This presents an opportunity to dig for information.

"Grace, I must quickly ask: your son mentioned a decision about him going to France soon. Can I hope for his availability to work this spring and summer? Or will he be away?"

Grace sighs heavily before responding.

"Since we last talked about the fight he had at school when I saw you, Elena, I'll tell you this. His father rapidly devised a stratagem to avoid both legal complications and a permanent criminal record."

I knew it. Christian had really gotten himself in trouble this time.

"Oh my. A stratagem? Entailing what?"

"The other boy's parents want Christian charged with assault. Their lawyer contacted Carrick yesterday. In effort to settle out of court, Carrick offered not only financial restitution to the boy and his family but also offered the condition that Christian leaves the country and finishes preparatory school in France."

I pull in a sharp gasp.

It was worse than I thought. When Christian told me about the fight and that he broke the other boy's teeth, I knew something dreadful would come of this. And here it was.

"Oh Grace. I'm so shocked," I lie.

"Well, Elena, I'm really not," she says resignedly. "Christian's escalation in violent behavior has alarmed me for quite some time. I also suspect he drinks alcohol and consorts with an unsavory crowd. Two or three years in France, far from Seattle, may be precisely what he needs."

My mind is reeling.

"Where will he stay? At school? Or with your sister in Lyon?"

"Christian is welcome to visit my sister's house during shorter holidays, but certainly he will stay at school throughout the year. He needs structure and monitoring. He will come home to Seattle over extended breaks. Carrick and I agree that this is the only way."

"Goodness, Grace," I scarcely whisper. "When? When will he go?"

"Carrick is negotiating with the plaintiff's legal team. The boy's parents want Christian gone yesterday. Naturally we are pushing for more time before he goes. Actually, Elena, you can help," Grace says, an idea taking shape in her mind. "May we list you as a reference, being that you employ Christian? If we can document that his time is confined to structured activities, then our petition may receive greater consideration."

"Absolutely. I would be glad to help. Christian needs to be with his family."

And me! He needs _me_. I'm his best friend. He said so.

I consider Grace's request for me to serve basically as a character reference. No legal professionals had better look into _my_ reputability; not with my father and brother being convicted felons having done time at New York's Riker's Island.

Then there's the two DUI arrests from my early twenties. And that shoplifting charge, which Linc made disappear with the purchase of a pricey diamond necklace.

But I can't tell Grace about any of that. She, like the rest of Seattle society, thinks I'm nothing but the perfectly upstanding wife of Lincoln Timber's respected CEO. They don't know the stains beneath the gold leaf.

"That's wonderful, Elena. Thank you. I will also request letters from his current therapist, his sailing instructor, his tutors…"

But I'm not listening anymore. As the conversation with Grace closes and we profer our kiss-kiss goodbyes, all I see is a looming deadline before Christian disappears from my life. He doesn't turn fifteen until later in the summer, long after he's departed for Europe, presenting me with a dilemma.

Do I initiate him before he goes?

I picture the office/bedroom upstairs and the locked filing cabinet of toys and implements. If that's the route I take, I'd better begin making Christian-specific purchases instanter. It is of utmost importance that I leave an indelible impression. I want him to be mine, long-term.

Or do I adhere to my age restriction rule and wait until he's returned home again?

That won't be until the Christmas holidays. He'll be fifteen then. Perhaps on the one year anniversary of our New Year's Eve kiss, I will take his virginity and leave him with far more stimulating memories to bring back to school. The rational me says this is the right option.

Rational me, however, is in my mental minority. Hedonistic me has a far stronger sway.


	9. Chapter 9

9\. Forgiveness

He turned up for work Thursday evening.

The iMac had arrived and was left boxed and on the floor of Dimitri's workshop. I didn't touch it. The damned computer hadn't been my idea, and now it seemed like an unnecessary extravagance. It was someone else's aspiration.

So when Christian appears late Thursday afternoon, wearing a decidedly sullen expression and speaking in monosyllables, when pushed to verbally respond at all, he nods his understanding that his suggested computer has been delivered.

He tosses down his backpack behind the register counter, then quietly busies himself, clearing space on the surface. I occupy myself nearby, not wishing to hover, but watch as he unboxes the futuristic-looking blue machine and sets about connecting cables as if he'd done the same thing five times earlier that day.

There is no doubt or hesitation in anything Christian does. Either he's thoroughly thought them through before arriving to the 'stage' where his actions are observed by others, or he has a seamless talent for figuring shit out on the fly.

I thinks it's a combination of the two.

Anticipating that he would request the ledgers, folders, plastic zip-lock baggies of receipts, notebooks and all the other crap that I had laid out for Linc on the breakfast bar the evening we went through the books, I set it all near to Christian and then back off.

He had not yet invited me into conversation. I can feel his hurt and rage.

Thankfully Anthony is not present. I gave him the task of accomplishing a number of minor deliveries around the city, and that should keep him away for a few hours.

Sales continue at a moderate pace throughout the late afternoon. My 'operating hours' classical music plays overhead.

Eventually closing time arrives and the doors to Chic Salvage are locked.

"Hungry?" I ask Christian.

"No," he says without looking up from the screen.

Christ, I think. _Bitchy_.

He shocks me when he speaks an actual sentence. "Mind if I change the music?"

OK, we're getting somewhere.

"Play what you like," I tell him. I want him to feel free here.

He turns to the stereo behind him and changes the selection to a local alternative station. Then he digs in his backpack, bringing out some CDs.

I lean on the counter, looking directly at him. He's ignoring me, and I'm fine with that. This is how he wants to deal with disappointment, pain, whatever he's feeling, then I can be patient.

Christian takes the high barstool behind the counter again and taps away at the iMac's keyboard.

Dave Matthews band. I like this. Apparently Christian does too. He turns around in the barstool and turns the volume up. "Ants Marching" is playing.

I smile at him and watch with absorption. I find he's a really impressive air drummer. The keyboard is abandoned for the moment, he's lost in the music, eyes shut, and he doesn't seem to care that my gaze is fixated on him.

I wonder how many other people in his life are admitted into something as personal and unguarded as what I'm watching now. I want it to go on and on, and I love every second of it.

The song ends and goes to commercial.

He takes out a CD and turns around to start it. Soundgarden's Superunknown. This one is awesome too. One song affects me in particular. I know my hands will have to be on Christian when it comes up.

"You know, Christian, this album was recorded here in Seattle."

"Yeah. The studio is only a few blocks from here," he says without looking up from the computer screen.

The QuickBooks program is in front of him and he's inputting data from the stack of receipts set beside him.

I look around. We are alone, the front door is locked, and I'm hungry for his company.

"Christian…"

He looks up. His gray eyes fix on mine. "What is it, El?"

"Look, I don't want to stop you from what you're doing, but can we just get past this… this _bullshit_ between us? I miss you, Christian. Talk to me."

He looks to his left, up the stairs to the shut door of the office/bedroom upstairs, then back at the computer screen.

"Where's your boyfriend?"

"Christian, he's not my boyfriend. You act like you're jealous."

He looks directly at me again. "I _am_ jealous!"

I don't know what to say. How do I explain Anthony to anyone outside the situation?

Tony and I provide a fantasy, _a service_ , to one another. It's not an emotional bond. I like Tony, sure, and he's a good worker, but our commonality is based in pleasure, pain and control. It's not easy to find. It's even harder to make anyone understand who doesn't live it and need it like we do.

Christian's eyes are still on me. Waiting.

"El, whatever it is you do with him up there, I want it to be me. Can you understand that?"

Yes, I understood. I wanted that too. Christian is just too young. And now he will be leaving the country. I wouldn't see him for months at a time.

"Yes, I understand. It's you that doesn't understand."

"Oh what the fuck, El?" he says angrily. "I know I'm probably just a kid to you, but you don't know where I've been or who I am. Don't treat me like some immature, impressionable little dipshit. I know what I want. You think I can't handle anything thrown at me? You haven't a fucking clue."

Okay, I'll give this a try.

"What I do, Christian," I said slowly, formulating my words carefully and accurately, "with him, is an addiction. I can't go without it. Not for long anyhow. It began when I was about your age, and it's not a choice." I'm staggering. This is hard. "There's no substitute for it."

"What, exactly, is an addiction, El? Are you in love with him?"

"No." I keep my gaze locked on his. I need him to understand this.

"Are you going to leave Linc for him?"

Oh my god, he's so on the wrong track. I shake my head in the negative.

"Whatever, El. I shouldn't care. I don't want to care. Maybe after I've been in France for a while, I won't care."

I'll try this.

"Do you think about that girlie who hurt you? The one who broke up with you and starting seeing the guy whose teeth you bashed?"

"That girl?" He laughs acidly. "It's not her fault I'm banished to France, but she _was_ the impetus of the whole thing."

I love the words he uses. Christian must be well-read. He speaks with a fluency of vocabulary that's unusual for someone his age.

"Yeah. That girl. Do you think about her anymore?"

"Nope. Never. And that feels pretty good."

"So I helped you. Maybe you don't think about her because of me. Because we've become friends and have gotten… close."

Christian looks back up the stairs and shut door. "I'm a different kind of jealous now. Bashing teeth, it turns out, only makes everything worse."

I so want to tell him. My mind is screaming to speak the words, to tell him precisely how I want our relationship to evolve, but that isn't the way. Showing him is the way. And that takes time, gradually easing him into being comfortable with my body and his. Teaching him to let go. Instructing him how to maintain control while letting go. Communicating with each step. Learning one another's signs with each scene and respecting one another's limits.

He's fresh and inexperienced as opposed to me. My limits are far reaching, and I can take tremendous stimulus before using a safe-word even crosses my mind.

Him? I don't know. He already has no-go areas of his body.

I recall undressing him to shower the night he was sick with alcohol consumption and in my suite. He reacted instantly and angrily to my touch of his chest, where those shiny white scars dotted his hairless skin.

Maybe he's subconsciously habituated to pain. His tolerance therefore may be very good. He may learn to enjoy the combination of sexual pleasure and controlled pain, but I want him to do more than learn to enjoy it. I want him to need it.

If introduced, developed and then amplified correctly, Christian will forever experience a plane of sexuality that far supercedes the conventional. Nothing less will ever be acceptable. He may try, for a time, but he will always return to what masterfully meted pain provides. Trust me, I know.

Or maybe he remains so traumatized by pain that he will never find pleasure in it. That's a possibility, and it disheartens me.

But maybe he will become an addict, like me. Maybe he will find addiction in the dispensing of pain, which, for the person whose nature lends them to it, becomes a consuming enslavement all its own. I should know since I'm one of them.

I could explain to him that there is no pleasure more intense than mastering and punishing a slave, orchestrating and escalating that precious _accomplice_ until you have that person lost in the alternate consciousness of subspace. What I _need_ is knowing that my slave is offered up in total trust and submission to me.

It's a sexual power-high like no other. And I'm a sick junkie for it.

I could explain that to Christian. Better that I show him. Words really do it no justice.

The CD's song changes to my Soundgarden favorite: "Fell On Black Days".

"Christian," I say and hold my hands out to him; a silent request for him to stand and come to me. I don't think I could speak now anyway, with these thoughts swirling around in my head and this song that does things to me.

I want him in my arms, moving with the music as we listen.

He pauses, considering. Then he stands and comes around the counter to me. He's reading me and knows, at least with some generality, where my thoughts have been.

Oh, _absolute decadence_.

Christian's tall, firm frame is under my hands. It's an electrical charge between us. His hips, then my hands slipping around to his lower back. His arms are around me and he pulls me close. My eyes shut, listening. I feel Christian's body feel the music. His body sways and translates sound into motion, beautifully. I'm weightless in his arms.

I breathe him. My head tips back and my lips are on his neck. I take deep breaths of pure _Christian_ ; take him in deep. My body follows his every interpretation of the music. And he's good. _Damn is he good_. We're in a mutual dream, moving together and feeling the song.

I can't help it. My hands lift the hem of his shirt and meet the waistband of his trousers. My fingers sink between skin and fabric, forging downward to sweep over rise of muscle. Christian's exquisite motion to music continues, enhanced with my touch almost imperceptibly, almost.

Vaguely I hear his heartbeat quicken.

All I can think of is remembrance. That night in my bathroom. Holding his hips, on my knees. Stretching my lips, my throat impossibly filled, unable to breathe, pleasurably. His strangled cries as I push him to his edge, and finally feel him pulse violently against my tongue and throat. My high was incredible. My high of triumph.

And he doesn't even remember it.

That's okay. We'll revisit that scene again. Many times.

The song comes to an end, and I'm wishing it were on 'repeat.'

We release one another reluctantly, stepping back, one micron at a time. His hands come to my cheeks and he places a sweet, tender kiss on my lips. Then he returns to the computer where he resumes his task of inputting receipt data. Hurt and jealousy are still upon him, in force.

"When do you have to be home?" I ask.

"No particular time. Grace and Carrick know I'm here."

"Okay. I'm going out to get us some dinner. Are you okay with Chinese?"

He nods. "Works for me. General Tsao chicken is good. Let me give you some money," he says and reaches for his backpack.

"No. Keep your money," I laugh. "General chicken. You got it. I'll be right back."

Outside in the street I'm glad for the cool evening air and ten minute walk to my favorite Chinese takeout. I stop and buy Christian a San Pellegrino, then continue on. My thoughts and the physical contact with Christian have had my pulse racing and body heated. As I walk and weave through evening sidewalk traffic, I reflect that his proximity has an amazingly consuming effect on me. Particularly when we are entirely alone.

Christian's employment at Chic Salvage is something I want to continue indefinitely. Or at least for as long as he remains in the country. At the same time I struggle with my age restriction rule and know that every time temptation is presented, like this evening, the likelihood of throwing restraint aside is dangerously high. My lips continue to tingle from his sweetly chaste kiss, and my body is saturated with his delicious scent, inside and out. I smell him on my clothes. I lift my blouse's collar to inhale more of him.

The bottom line: I can't have him. Not yet.

I'm going to have to resist the draw to touch him, allowing myself to only absorb him with my eyes and to breathe him at every opportunity. It's become like teasing a lioness with a fresh, mouthwatering steak.

In the meantime I will have to sate my hunger elsewhere. Thank heavens for Tony. Heaven help that poor young man because I'm going to tear him to shreds next time.

I'm back at Chic Salvage within another half hour and set our feast and Christian's San Pellegrino on the counter beside this ridiculously spaceage-looking computer. Christian moves the paperwork aside and situates himself away from the computer keyboard.

"How's it going?" I ask with a glance at the computer.

"It's fine. I'll have you sorted out by next week," he says, opening the green bottle and folded cardboard containers. "Thanks for dinner."

"You're very welcome."

"To answer your question, there's a lot of information to input. OCR would help, but it's technology in its infancy. That would have been an added request, and I'm happy Linc gave you a computer and QuickBooks at all."

"OCR?"

"Optical Character Recognition. All of these figures need to be entered manually, but I'm getting it done. What the fuck else do I have going on?"

I look at the papers, invoices and receipts in organized stacks. "I'm glad you're doing all of this, Christian. Thank you."

"You've kept good records, El," he says, taking the plastic fork I hand him. "I have some ideas about growing the business. Making real estate connections and getting the jump on historic estate sales, foreclosures and buildings slated for teardown. Advertising in the form pictorials and writeups about homes that reduce and re-use, with carefully selected items brokered through Chic Salvage. Seattle is on the forefront of renewable everything. We can make a killing."

I smile and dig into my Cantonese shrimp chow mein. I just want to keep him. This kid is going places in life and it is my intention to cheer him on and support him every step of the way. Not that he needs much encouragement or financial backing, but it's always good to have friends in your corner.

"Your mom told me, Christian, about you leaving for France this summer, and why. I don't like it, but I see the wisdom in it. Things have become too hot here for you."

"Yeah. That guy's parents want me either out of the country, or if I am to stay in the U.S., they want juvenile detention," he laughs. "So there's not much of a choice."

"No. Certainly not," I sadly say. "When will you go?"

"End of the month."

I look up. "What? The end of _this_ month?"

"Yeah." And he continues eating.

I'm speechless. And I feel ill.

"Why so soon?" I ask.

"Negotiations on my behalf have not gone as well as my parents and I hoped. Douchebag's lawyer threw a wide net and subpeonaed the other headmasters and school principals who dismissed me. Also the other guys in those fights, and their parents. It's become quite the extradition of Christian posse. It's best that I get out and lay low."

"Oh my god, Christian."

I'm shaking my head and fighting the unwelcome sting of tears.

"It's okay, El. I'm not scared. And I'm not angry. This is all my own fault. Maybe, hopefully, I'll learn from this and not be such a hothead in the future."

I can't respond.

"Or maybe some French asshole will piss me off, and I'll have to choose a whole new country. Sri Lanka is nice, I hear," he says with a gorgeous smile.

A tear falls, and I'm so angry with myself. I don't cry. I come from people who don't tolerate the weakness of tears. The music overhead now doesn't help. Counting Crows and "A Long December". My tears fall faster.

This is bad. When I do cry, on the rare occasion, it's hard to stop once it gets started.

Christian is off his barstool and comes around the counter to me. He holds out a hand to mine. I stand and walk into his open arms. I should be comforting _him,_ not the other way around.

We bring arms around one another and I follow his lead of swaying slowly, divinely to the music.

Meanwhile I'm wondering how I'm going to go months, maybe years without breathing Christian's heady scent. Of this I've become an addict too. I want it imprinted on my brain, and I take handfuls of his shirt and inhale hungrily as I hold his body close and we move to the music.

He caresses my back and whispers into my hair, " _Je reviendrai vers toi, ma douce. Ne crains pas_."

I look up at his gray eyes, molten steel with emotion of his own.

He kisses my lips tenderly and whispers, "I will come back to you, my sweet. Fear not."

Now my tears are falling fast, just like I knew they would.

It's some minutes before I can speak.

"This Saturday night, Christian, I want you to visit me. At my house, in my suite."

"Do you? Why?"

"We need to spend time together. We'll watch an old movie. Just be with me."

I can see him calculating, formulating a plan of how he'll pull this off with his watchful parents nearby.

He nods. "It may be late."

We go back to finishing our Chinese dinner.

I look up at him as he takes a deep swallow of San Pellegrino. He truly is my best friend. I want to share with him a film that is close to my heart. And maybe he'll understand me better.

Christian reminds me of him. Of Brando, particularly in the film I'll show him. With the door locked and lights off, we'll watch "Last Tango in Paris."

He takes my hand across the countertop and strokes my fingers. I lift his hand and press his palm to my cheek and lips. His molten gray eyes are on mine.

Christian has forgiven me.


	10. Anticipation

**Chapter 10. Anticipation**

It's Saturday night, gone 10:00. Linc departed for his golfing club hours ago, eager for a night of carousing with cronies, smoking stogies, drinking and gambling. I don't expect him home until the early hours. I'm reclined on the loveseat in my suite, the lights are off, and my feet are comfortably propped on an ottoman. The TV shows the final scenes of the film I planned for tonight.

Christian leans against me, shirtless and silent as the story's conclusion plays out. I run my fingers through his thick auburn hair, breathing him as I absently lay kisses along his hairline. Our time together is whittling away. Separation is coming.

Damn, he smells amazing, and it's not the shower he took here in my bathroom upon arriving earlier tonight. He simply emits an _allure_ that sends my senses awhirl and impulses hungry _._

I've learned to respect Christian's no-touch areas, but that doesn't mean I can't exploit the rest. His shoulders, neck, and amazingly his armpits are all green-light areas. It amuses me that he loves to be caressed and stroked. His skin is silky smooth, and I love how comfortable he's become with my fingers gliding over his bare arms, abdomen, low back and thighs. You have to know where to go with him, and now with trust added, he gives himself over completely.

Sprawled against me, he's warm and bare, and I look curiously at his chest's shiny white burn scars. I know he's not about to overcome the aversion of their anticipated touch, and that's okay. I can respect his few boundaries, especially when there's so much more available for my hands, mouth, hair… whatever part of me I wish. Someday he may even tell me all about them.

Movie night in my bedroom has been anticipated all week. Today, Christian finished with Chic Salvage's data input and at closing time he shut the blue computer down, then assisted Tony with relocating a few heavy items around the warehouse; a substantial Spanish tiled concrete wall fountain being one of them. Then Elliot arrived to pick him up.

Tony departed shortly thereafter to take his California cupcake GF out for a night of club hopping, which didn't disturb me at all since I got everything I wanted out of Anthony Sharpe last night in my office/bedroom. Tony avoided sitting today, and when he did, it was done gingerly. Tony can thank young Christian, not just me, for my enhanced zeal with a leather crop last night. And Tony did thank me; the image of my gorgeous Welshman playmate on his knees, his wrists bound and tear-streaked face suffused with spent passion.

Alone now in the Chic Salvage warehouse, I wander the silent, narrow aisles and await the hours ahead. It isn't long before my phone rings with the expected call. Christian's voice sends butterflies fluttering in my chest, and I'm reminded of standing outside Evgeny's door at the MGM Grand Hotel, raising my hand to knock.

"Carrick and Grace are going out," Christian informs me. I can hear road noise in the background.

"Where are you? I hear traffic."

"In the parking lot of Vine Street Market. Elliott's picking up supplies for a party tonight in Capitol Hill. Some guy at school, his parents are in Barbados. It's going to be a blowout apparently."

The trust Christian places in me is astounding. He tells me all the secrets that would have his mother in apoplectic fits. Parties, fake IDs, who brings the liquor and pot, the girls Elliott screws. It's become like our own private world of information sharing, and I wouldn't think to judge Christian or anyone else involved. I would never turn motherly and condemn behavior. How could I? What with the history _I_ could document in detail.

Hell, those days are behind me, but I remember the fun and miss it tremendously.

Maybe that's the best thing about having no kids; there's no incentive for me to _lie_ like most parents do. Yes I had indescriminate sex. Yes I smoked pot. Yes I got rip-roaring drunk. Yes I ran from the cops. Yes yes yes to all of it and more.

Christian continues, "An attorney friend of Carrick's invited them to the Seattle symphony at Benaroya Hall and then a late supper. They won't be home until well after midnight."

My excitement is only enhanced, somehow, by the police siren whining close over the phone and then away. I picture him in a parking lot talking to me on his Nokia.

"How nice for them," I purr, exhilarated by the possibilities presented for an evening alone with Christian.

"And Mia's going to a sleepover, so it looks like I'm on my own."

I laugh. "What, no elderly Mrs. Davis called in to babysit you?"

He sneers. "Fuck no! Before Grace and Carrick take off for the symphony, I'm going on an extended run and won't be home to discuss any restrictions for tonight. Cross country practice never rests, you know El, and if I want to be on the team at my new school in Lyon, I'd better keep up. Who knows where my run tonight might take me?"

His theatrically blameless tone makes me smile. He's quite adept at manipulating his socially active parents.

Thrills spread through my chest, right down to my fingertips.

"For your run this evening, Christian, you could tell Grace you'll be north of Medina Park, along Evergreen Point Road. Get started soon and you'll have plenty of daylight remaining. She knows the road is quiet, winding past big stately mansions. It happens to go right past my house."

He's damn familiar with the road on which I live, I know.

I can hear his smile. "Okay. See you tonight. There's a request I want to discuss with you."

"Oh? The answer is yes."

Christian laughs too. "And that, El, is why you're my best friend. Bye."

The line goes dead.

So once returned home and after showering, I lay on my bed with my phone beside me and wait. The house is quiet. I feel the same anticipation now as I did years ago, as a teen back in Tacoma, knowing and feeling that the extraordinary was coming for me. My coach, Evgeny, was nearby. He would have me tonight. My draw to him was extra-sensory, the connection between he and I as magical as it was powerful. I lay on my bed now, drifting in and out of a nap and remembering.

Evgeny's Russian intensity had been physically palpable, and I could feel it escalate as he perfected my form and posture during rehearsals in the dance studio. Using firm eye contact, he would poise my arms and body, then whisper that he was _pogloshchen zhelaniyem_ (consumed with desire.) Once my teenage dance partner departed for home, Evgeny would take my hand and lead me to his bedroom below the studio. Along the way my knees would weaken, knowing the next hours would be _epic_.

And I haven't known that feeling since. Not until Christian Grey.

Darkness now descends outside my bedroom window as I wait for Christian to appear. That feeling, that _sense_ he is nearing is a heady aura of power and intelligence and insane sexuality. Dreams ebb close and away. The aura has found me out. It is stalking me and is upon me.

My eyes are closed in the soft lamplight on the bedside table. I realize I'm squirming in anticipation. In a black camisole and jeans shorts, I'm warm. Nipples are peaked and thighs are curiously a-tingle.

"Are you ready for me?" his delicious voice speaks.

I smile and open my eyes. Trust Christian to let himself into the house and find his way upstairs to my suite. He's standing at the foot of my bed, removing his t-shirt, a look of amused appreciation over his assessing gray eyes. He tosses his sweaty shirt to the floor and then climbs onto the bed and over me, his muscular legs straddling my thighs. Even when sweaty from running he smells divine.

"Thanks for inviting me," he grumbles low, eyes coasting down over the length of my body.

My hands are already on his muscular thighs, moving north into the legs of his running shorts. "Thank _you_ for accepting."

He hovers over me, brushing his lovely lips over mine. "What shall we do tonight, Mrs. Lincoln?"

I grin as my fingers trace over the hardness his ass and legs, telling myself to be good. To wait until he's reached my minimum age restriction. It's truly a struggle.

"It's movie night, darling," I reply.

He knows my rule, and grins. "Okay. But let me shower first."

He strips off the remainder of his clothes under my full view and heads for the shower. I move closer across the room and watch him from the loveseat. He knows I love to watch him, the voyeur that I am.

An hour later we're on my loveseat watching a classic romance and one of my personal favorites. There are some who are offended by _Last Tango in Paris_ although I can't imagine why. Romance isn't my thing, but a passionate connection… that's something to which I can relate. Even if _(especially if)_ it involves butter.

And so Christian is shirtless. He's wearing an old pair of my cutoff cotton sweat pants and is leaning on me with his back to my chest. His auburn hair is damp, and I enjoy touselling his unruly waves and massaging his scalp. With his eyes fixed on the story, he purrs softly. Touch is what I've missed more than anything, and will continue to miss once Christian flies away to France.

There's going to be a time, soon, when I'll lay here on my sofa, thinking of Christian, far away at school in Europe, and willing myself not to cry. That devastated feeling of my man having discarded _us_ will approach me again. It's something I don't wish to repeat. My mind is never far from Evgeny, being that the last time I heard his voice or looked upon him was eighteen years ago. As I touch Christian and watch a film I've seen several times, my mind wanders…

In the first weeks after my Master abandoned the U.S. for Russia, I made excuses for him. "He's just settling back in; he'll write or call." Months went by, but nothing. My birthday came and went. Of course he knew my date of birth, having completed competition rosters enough times on my behalf. Christmas, Valentine's Day… no phone call, no card, nothing. High school graduation… nothing. I asked Agnessa and Maxim if he ever wrote. Agnessa gave me her disappointed sour expression and called me _zhalkiy_ ('pathetic' in Russian), reporting with a dismissive wave, "No, _glupyy_ ('stupid'). Evgeny gone."

 _Yeah. Apparently so_.

Even now, with beautiful Christian in my arms, I cannot stop thinking of the man who forever poisoned me with need for him. For power and pain. I still haven't stopped hoping he would come back for me. With no money to go looking for him in his own country, the idea continues to be mere fantasy. The first time I did have money for such an undertaking, ironically, was after I married Linc.

Don't think I haven't considered it, taking the old man's money and going on a search for my deserting Master. I've devised a hundred stories for Linc, about having to visit my ailing _babushka_ (grandmother) in the old country, amongst other tall tales, but never have I had the nerve to expand the lie and buy a plane ticket. It's too late now. I'm thirty-something, not seventeen any longer. Master won't want me.

Christian is the first real hope of healing I've known.

Playing with Christian's hair, I realize his incredible appeal for me. He's what I was, years ago when I was a fifteen-year-old competitive dancer; young, fresh, capable of being moulded into the perfect plaything, and a willing one at that. Christian is not yet an adult man, but when he is, I doubt he will have the same appeal for me. He will be a threat, one who can abandon and hurt me. A platonic friendship will need to resume once Christian has reached full adulthood.

In addition to the financial security, I married Linc to provide a shield from having my heart broken ever again. So far, a frozen heart is better than a tortured one. But right now, Christian is the perfect candidate for me and what I need. He will remain perfect for, oh, maybe another five or six years. Then I'll let him loose to practice his learned skills. And I'll love to hear the stories of his subs and their scenes, the voyeur in me loving every detail. Christain and I will always have our ties that bind. Pun intended.

Permanent separation won't happen with Christian and I for that very reason. Where-ever life takes us, whomever he meets, whatever promises he makes to her, I know… _know_ with my full heart and soul…that Christian will always long for his Elena inside the private silence of himself. With each private episode, I will ingrain myself further into him. It's my intention to cast that certainty into rock solid permanence before the inevitable future even tries to interfere.

And it will try. Of that I have no doubt. Some girlie will try. _But I got here first_ …and he will be poisoned by me like I am by my _Master_.

The word 'Master' is the same in Russian, incidentally.

The movie finishes, and the sense of loss washes over me, just as it does every time I see Brando where he lays mortally wounded on that balcony.

"You leave next week," I say, my thoughts summarized rhetorically.

"Yeah. Grace has a family vacation to Cabo planned before I leave for France. We leave a week from today."

I smile ruefully. "So. You're hereby giving one week notice."

He looks at me. "Yes. But I hope you'll have me back. I like working for you."

"I like you working for me too. You're welcome anytime, my darling. You've been an amazing help. Thank you for all you've done."

"It was easy for me, getting the business computerized," he smiles. "I've learned a lot and got to spend time with you."

I lean down and take Christian's earlobe between my lips and murmur, "I'm gonna miss you, baby. Thanks for being here tonight. And for being my special friend."

He turns over to sit facing me. He pauses thoughtfully before saying, "I've got a job for you, El."

My interest is piqued, particularly with his sultry tone.

"Oh yes? What can I do for you?"

Facing me, he brings warm hands slowly and assuredly to my shoulders and collar bones, stroking lightly. His fingers are under the thin straps of my camisole, bringing them apart and over my shoulders. The silky camisole slides over my breasts and down to my waist. The straps keep my arms to my sides.

Christian loves my breasts, and I cannot deny him, particularly when separation is looming so near. He plays, capturing and gently twisting, keeping eye contact always. Somehow he just knows the way. This is not something I've had to teach him.

He says, "I love how your heartbeat quickens when I do this, El."

My consciousness is slipping away under the perfection of his hands. I lean back and let him explore.

"You're good, Christian, so good… for one so young," I breathe. "So, what is it you want from me?"

He continues, looking me over, slowly licking his perfect lips, then watching his hands work.

"I want you to get with Grace and have a project completed. When I return from France at the Christmas break, the boathouse needs to be renovated and ready."

In my blossoming sexual dreamstate I recall the Grey's boathouse. It's a cottage-like clapboard structure located maybe one hundred yards from the main house, at the end of a winding brick paver path, over the elevated patio and down across a meadow to the edge of the water. My daytime recollection presented a lonely, empty little white structure set on the edge of the Puget Sound.

The last time I saw the small, two-story white wood-framed boathouse, it wasn't much more than the name implied. The first story consisted of a 'garage' enclosing a sparkling new speedboat bobbing on the water inside the tiny sheltered inlet. The remainder of the first floor housed various boating equipment, ropes, life vests, a canoe and oars, a granite-countered kitchen and sink, and a small full bath with shower. A wooden stairway led to the second story, which to my knowledge, has always been used for holiday decoration storage.

Christian's fingers work expertly, rolling and kneading slowly, sensuously, handling me beautifully. My heavy lids lift to find his beautiful face raised, lips parted to hint at perfect teeth, his breathing deep. His gray eyes are on my mouth and then drifting down to his hands. I would do anything he asked, he's so good. And so dear.

His voice is hypnotic.

"We need our own place, El. Not that room upstairs at the warehouse, where you take _him._ It's not private enough. And when I picture it in my mind, that Welsh fucker is there with you. I know you had him there last night."

Tony. He's still jealous of Tony. "Christian, please…"

He pinches and twists little harder, igniting my fire higher. All I can do is release a speechless gasp.

"Tell me. Confess it, El. Last night, you had him up there. It's your Friday night tradition, isn't it?"

I couldn't speak. Christian's spell and what he could do to me….

"Give it, El. You are to tell me."

I gasped incoherently before confessing, "Yes. I did have him there." And I go into detail, feeling that as much as it inflames Christian's jealousy, more so, he thrives on it.

"Tony, he's a stallion," I tell him. "He was in supreme form last night…."

Christian's beautiful face is a mask of arousal.

What I hold back is that there is no _heart_ between Tony and I. That's because my heart is with Christian. My fantasies, my obsession. The truth is too much to confess to anyone. I've learned the hard way about giving too much of myself to a man whose nature lusts control and power.

"Right, El, it was Tony last night. Can you imagine what that does to me? Picturing you with him? What you do together in that room?" Christian is gently gasping as he too confesses. "I come fucking buckets thinking about it. Imagining you with him."

He's almost hurting me, but not quite. I love what he's doing, intensely.

"But when I return from school, El, it's going to be me. And we need our own place. Somewhere I can meet you easily and privately."

Christian comes in closer, never stopping his expert young hands, his mouth and hot breath now on my neck. Oh my god…

"When I return at the Christmas break," he murmurs, "the boathouse will be finished and ready. New Year's Eve will be an incredible event at my house, ringing in the year 2000." He keeps working my body and I'm anywhere but down here on Earth. "You're going to do with me what you do with your Welsh fucktoy. And don't let me think for a second you're holding back when you're with me."

 _Oh, I won_ _'_ _t_ …

His kisses ascend up my neck to my ear as he continues his sensual assault on my breasts. My hands, I realize, are on his hips and fully aware of his straining arousal.

His mouth and tongue trail along my jaw toward my mouth, and I feel I'm going to explode under his incandescent intensity.

"Yes, baby," I tell him. "It will be beautiful. Private, fresh and luxurious."

He kisses my lips expertly, tantalizingly, then praises me. "Good, El. So good. The boathouse is what I want."

"I can't wait to get started. And to have you there, Christian."  
He has what he wants, and brings me gradually down from my sexual stratosphere. I don't want to acknowledge that he's adept at manipulating me too.

A while later we're laying on my bed, wrapped in one another, the lamplight low. He reminds me not to let him fall asleep. It's gone midnight, and our time is running short. We're silent, enjoying one another's warmth. He needs to take off running back home before his parents return from the post symphony late-supper, and I have maybe an hour before Linc's car weaves drunkenly up the drive, hopefully not running over the lighted lanterns flanking the pavement - again.

I'm brainstorming about the boathouse. This is just what I need. A diversion, a project, to get me through until I see Christian again. It can be a guesthouse too, a very charming one for visitors who want romance and privacy. Oh the possibilities!

"I need someone to do the building and renovations," I think aloud.

"Use Elliott. Grace and Carrick are making him do _something_ by way of a carrer. Elliott would be content spending his time being a layabout, but they forced him to choose a career. He needs apprenticeship hours for this tradeschool program Carrick found for him. Get a professional builder to oversee the boathouse project. Talk to Carrick, settle on a general contractor, and make a deal that he takes on Elliott as his apprentice."

"What if Elliott doesn't want to work with the general contractor? What if he's bullshitting your parents about doing that as a career?"

"Elliott owes you a favor for keeping me here when I was puking bourbon that night, doesn't he?" Christian nods. "Yeah, this settles it, El. Everybody's happy. Both my parents get a project done, and they arrange apprenticeship hours for Elliott. He gains experience, we get the boathouse done, we get our own place, private and away from the road and the house."

"You know Elliott is going to want to use it every chance he can get too."

"That's fine when I'm away at school. Don't worry; I'll see to it that he's away at New Year's eve, maybe at our house in Aspen for a ski trip. He'll be glad to have the chalet all to himself, with Grace and Carrick occupied throwing a huge bash here," he laughs. "Elliott will have a fucking orgy at the ski chalet in Colorado."

I see his vision and how this is a win-win all around. "You're amazing, Christian. And a little diabolical."

"I know," he smiles.

"Put a phone in the boathouse," he adds. "Rule number one: no one comes down there without calling first. Especially Mia."

"Okay. I'll get on it tomorrow."

"Good," he says and glaces at my bedside clock. It's 12:30am. "I gotta go."

He changes back into his running clothes. I would drive him home, but if my Lexus is gone from the garage when Linc returns, there will be an avalanche of questions and I just don't want to deal with him tonight. He's a complete prick after a night of drinking.

I take Christian down to the kitchen and we linger at the back door, not exactly hugging and kissing, but communing in our own way. I kiss his hands and stroke his okay-to-touch areas. He sweeps a thumb across my lower lip and gives me a deep, gray gaze.

"Go. Run home," I tell him. "And be careful. Text me when you get there."

"Okay. Thank you for tonight. I liked the film. That French chick is hot."

I laugh in agreement. "I'm glad you watched it with me. And Christian, I'm missing you already."

"I'll come to work this week. My mother, you know, she will have my days scheduled with pre-departure plans. You'll see me a few times, but probably not any more than that."

The tears are trying to come up, but with years of practice I push them down again. At least he's saying goodbye. It's more than the last time I fell in love and was abandoned.

He leans in and kisses my lips. It's the sweetest kiss I've had in ages.

We hear the automatic garage door opening. _Shit_.

"Go." My hands release him reluctantly.

Christian dashes off in graceful running strides across the paved pool deck, and my sight loses him in the darkness.

True to his prediction, my time with Christian in the coming week is very limited. Grace has him scheduled every day. There's dinner downtown with his maternal grandparents and a visit to his ailing paternal grandmother's assisted living facility, consultation with both his parents' and the defendant's legal teams, and also telephone interviews with his French headmaster, teachers and coaches. A dental appointment. Vaccination updates. Clothes shopping…

By the close of the week my eyes are glazing over with his strictly scheduled activities.

In the meantime, Christian gives an iMac and Quickbooks data tutorial to me, to Tony, and to the Chinese graduate intern who's been seldom seen since our teen employee arrived to admirably perform the task of sorting us out with computer updating.

Friday afternoon, Grace arrives after close of office hours to whisk her son away for completion of final chores before they depart for their family holiday in Cabo.

"Elena, you are the most wonderful friend," Grace gushes as she hugs me. "Christian has adored working at Chic Salvage and so looks forward to assiting you and your charming partner," she adds with a lingering look at the posterior of Anthony who is just now up a ladder adjusting a display of antique wall sconces.

I hug her warmly back and reply, "He's been a tremendous help, Grace. Your son is welcome to return to us anytime."

Grace Trevelyan-Grey beams at the praise of her son, meanwhile jingling her car keys in haste to continue with their myriad of tasks. We all begin congregating near the door.

Grace says, "Christian suggested a delightful renovation project at our place. He immediately thought of your impeccable and unique sense of style to ensure a charming result. You've seen our boathouse, haven't you, Elena."

"Only briefly."

"Well, my son here is certain you can turn it into a cozy and romantic guesthouse suite, increasing the value of the property overall."

"He recommended me? How lovely of him," I benignly smile, noting Christian's crafty grin.

"Yes! Once our family has returned from Cabo and seen Christian off to France, you must come to the house for lunch. We will have a tour and discuss the details with Carrick."

I glance sideways to see Christian's self-satisfied smirk.

"Grace, I am eager to hear your ideas and to offer my assistance in any way I can provide it."

It's hug-hug, kiss-kiss as it's apparent that Christian will soon be gone.

"Darling," Grace gently warns her son, "time runs short. There's much to do this evening before we leave."

"Yes, Mom." His gray eyes glance at me continually, his thoughts obviously in the romantic boathouse suite upon the next time we'll see one another: New Year's Eve.

Tony comes down off the ladder to shake Christian's hand warmly and slap his arm. "Clever lad! Ta for all your help, mate."

"You're welcome, Mr. Sharpe."

"You mind yourself amongst them frogs, boyo. 'Specially the birds. Come back to us safe."

"Yes, sir," Christian nods and leans close to Tony adding something we ladies aren't meant to share.

Then Christian comes to me, his back to his mother.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Lincoln," he says, his smoldering gray eyes full of meaning.

"Goodbye, Christian. I'll be thinking of you and looking forward to having you back."

"Not to worry," he says softly during an embrace, "you'll have me." He takes my hand in a slow, lingering shake. I'll cry later, I chide myself. Not now.

His mother meanwhile is unexpectedly lost in conversation with the delectable Anthony.

"What did you say to Tony?" I whisper to Christian, my eyes narrowed.

"I only said, 'Take care of her for me.' Maybe he thinks I meant the warehouse. I didn't."

He takes me in his arms for a second brief embrace, also unnoticed by his dazzled mother.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Lincoln. And thank you."

"Good bye, Christian. Keep in touch."

And I watch until he and his mother are through the front doors of the warehouse and gone.

True to all plans, the boathouse is renovated to gorgeous perfection. Upstairs is a charmingly romantic small bedroom and adjoining sitting room, furnished in warm tones of off-white and decorated with whimsical antique accents selected from Chic Salvage. A rustic cast iron wood stove adds intimate warmth to the insulated cottage. Skylights and casement windows admit the mellow seaside breeze coming off the Puget Sound. The full bath also is recipient to an overhaul, tiled beautifully by a local craftsman friend of Tony's.

Both Grace and Carrick are elated with the result, and being that my strict timeline afforded completion by the first week in December, all curious friends and relatives have already enjoyed a viewing by the time New Year's Eve is upon us. Christian has been at home since Christmas Eve, monopolized by his family (understandably) as they take a short skiing trip and then a day of snowmobiling together. He and I exchange texts often and eagerly.

Finally, New Year's Eve is upon us. The Grey's have arranged a formal affair inside the main house. Both inside and out, the Grey's mansion is richly decorated as only Grace can imagine. The exterior is beautifully illuminated in holiday lighting, lending visual warmth to the crisp December air. A light flurry of snow whirls beyond the lofty windows.

As guests mingle and enjoy their evening, all partake liberally of the champagne flutes circulated about he room by the attractive, uniformed staff. The formal band plays and guests dance. Christian and I share a cursory greeting before he's drawn away to talk with eager guests of his first months at school in Lyon, France.

From afar I gaze at how beautiful a man he's becoming, dressed well in dinner jacket and tie, having grown in height considerably as well as filled out through chest and shoulders. More manly than boyish now, his manners and interactions with guest speak of confidence and charming ease.

He very apparently hasn't forgotten what we are to one another. His grey eyes flick to me at every oppotunity. Although there are many appreciative gazes from female guests of all ages, it's me his eyes linger upon. It's me he wishes to stand near. Several times he breaks away from conversation and draws me into his arms to dance, breathing a sigh of relief that he's finally fully at ease. Meanwhile I'm anxious for what the night will bring. His voice is deeper than the last time I heard it.

Finally, as the hour before midnight wastes and Linc wanders away into heavy, drunken conversation with a semi-rival business aquaintance, Christian's hand gently comes to my shoulder from behind. The five piece band continues to play. Throngs of dancing guests have been consuming champagne or their chosen spirit for hours. No one is entirely coherent; except for Christian and I. I've avoided consuming alcohol all evening, wishing for my senses to be completely intact for what I anticipate. Separately, Christian and I know where is evening will lead.

"El, soon perhaps you'll join me for a stroll," he asks.

"Whenever you say," I smile. "I've missed you."

He takes me in his arms to dance and I so want to kiss him. Right here. Right now.

He says, "I have a surprise planned. They'll be here any minute. Wait."

"What surprise? What's it for?"

"It's for us. A diversion."

I look at him curiously but remain in his arms, swaying beautifully to the music.

"Here they are," says Christian.

I look around to see unknown gentlemen entering through the front doors. They greet a number of guests jovially, apparently known to many, and remove their overcoats with the help of two devoted assistants. Four of the men have instrument cases. The new group makes their way through the crowd to join the band.

Within a few minutes, the band now has a horn section and a handsome singer. I watch, entranced, as they strike up a perfect rendition of Sinatra's "Come Fly With Me", and the uncannily talented singer would have me swear Ol' Blue Eyes himself has joined the Grey's party. Everyone is transfixed, then dancing like, well, like it's 1999. Because it is.

Christian takes my hand and leads me through the dancing and drinking bodies, along corridors, and away from the captivated partygoers.  
"Where is your coat?" he asks.

"Upstairs in a bedroom. Buried under other coats," I reply.

Christian leads me along another corridor and opens a closet door, pulling out a men's woolen coat. "It's one of Elliott's," he tells me, "better than nothing."

In winter coats, Christian leads me out the back of the house and away across the brick paver patio, along pathways and over the grassy hills towards twinkling lights on the water and the boathouse.

"It will be warm inside," he says. "I dashed out of the party a while ago and got a fire started in the wood stove."

"Christian, you are so smart it scares me sometimes."

He smiles and holds my hand tightly in his. Our breath is frozen vapor as we walk along the paver paths.

"Tell me, Christian. Did you hire that Sinatra singing impersonator and horn section just to divert everyone's attention so we could make our getaway?"

"Yes," he grins. "I made the suggestion to Carrick. He loves Sinatra. It's a gift to Grace."

"And its a gift to me," I say as we arrive to the boathouse.

He opens the door for me and I enter.

"Then it's a selfish gift that I gave you, El." He leans down and kisses me, wrapping his arms around me.

"I have something for you. For when you return this summer." I give him my gift of two tickets to see Metallica this June. I know they're a favorite of his.

"You're amazing, El. Thank you."

He's pulling the hem of my blouse from my skirt.

I lock the door.

"Let's go upstairs," I tell him.

He takes my hand and leads me up to the loft.

There, I hold nothing back. Nor does he. All of the passionate energy held at bay these many months is given full reign. Before the stroke of midnight, his body and soul are mine, and as the new millenium arrives, his virginity is cast into the recesses of the forgotten. Tonight I enjoy Christian for the first of many times to come.

The End

Special thanks to:

 _The Fifty Shades of Grey_ series (all four books but particularly _Grey_ ) by E.L. James

The car guys and computer geeks in my life who lended their knowledge and opinions.

My family, for once again sharing me with an intrusive writing compulsion.

And of course, to all of you who enjoyed _Elena L_. Being bad can be oh so good… JLN


End file.
